Shame

There’s nothing I could do at this point to become acceptable. I’ve irredeemably stained myself. So why fucking bother? Why do anything?

I don’t want to be this. The villain in other people’s stories. The threat. The source of disgust and repulsion. It hurts. And I’m not saying I don’t deserve to feel bad. But it’s not a feeling I can stand. It drains all meaning from the world. There’s no hope.

I don’t want die. I’ve got survival instincts like most people. Dying scares the shit out of me. I have more reason than most to fear hell.

But I don’t want to be this anymore. I’m tired of hating myself. And there’s no way out. No hope of improvement.

I want to go back. Be somebody different. Free of the guilt I’ve shackled myself with.

I’m a monster. And monsters survive. They cling on until the last gasp, until life is wrenched from them. Until justice finally catches up with them.

But much of the time, I just want to stop. To cease being this. To go back, to when I was innocent. Before I came to feel that evil was the greatest good.

If someone could just erase me from existence with a snap of the fingers, I wouldn’t object. It would be for the best.