Death: A Memoir

I won't ask much of you. Just listen to my story. Open your ears to me and, for you, I'll open my soul. I could never fathom the motive for people's displeasure in my actions. Was it fear? Do they view what I do is sinful? Unjust? Recounting my childhood tale of unimaginable woe seems to be the only path I have yet to follow. So listen, perhaps you'll learn that the black rivers of my heart are not as frightening, damned, or devilish as you once thought.
I was kidnapped as child. Ripped from the grasp of my grandmother at the zoo. The monkey house, my favorite place. I don't know what it is about a stench so foul, one that squeezes your tear ducts and makes cry like you've just been punched in the groin that is so pleasurable.
Taken I was. Crying. Gagged and stuffed into the back of a truck. The driver, drunk, drove carelessly. His concern for humanity flying out the window faster than his car rocketing down the street.
I remember the crash. I remember the smell. The smell of the burning gas, flesh. Rotten. Different. I remember people coming. Red, blue lights. Sirens galore. I remember.I remember not caring.
My mother and father didn't care. For me, or themselves. "Strap in for the ride of your life you little good for nothing piece of shit."
That was the last thing my mother said to me before she pulled the trigger. Blood, red and warm, splashing up against my fathers already dead face.
I cringed. Wiggling. Clanking my chains against the chair they had strapped me to. If only I could have reached the gun.
I moved in with grandma, she took me to the zoo. But blood hungry drunks killed me. The accident killed me. My mother killed me.
To die, at a time when, to you, the world is already dead, shot to death as you watched, strapped to a .nothing could be better.
It is said, by those who love, that dying is, in essence, a re- acquaintance with those loved and lost. However, the cops mopped up all of my feelings of love and affection when they cleaned up my parents brains.
It's like floating. Dying is. Like floating, lonely in a white abyss of contentment. All feelings beyond you. Your hatred. Your happiness. Your pain. All of it rising, rising, rising.
It's gone.
And it's just you. For once, finally, it's just you.
With what little goodness I had managed to hold on to over the years I decided to be a savior. A bringer of death.
I would save people from life. A trap I got caught in too many times. A trap that hurts. A trap baited with promises or wondrous days, joyful .
Yes, I kill. But I kill for the good of the people. So, rejoice when I knock on your door because nothing can promise more wondrous days. Nothing can promise more joyful years. No one can promise you more than me. Death.