I don’t really believe in regret, but now that I’m experiencing it for the first time in my life, I must admit: this shit is a fucking bitch.
It’s hard for me to express the exact details of my new, big regret, mostly because I’m still coming to terms with an unfulfilled blood lust that fills my veins. I thought that if I ignored it forever, pretended it wasn’t there, morphed into a softer, milder version of myself, that this overwhelming rage would simply peter out. It hasn’t.
Instead I am steeped amongst the living, peering into Hell, and looking at all the familiar faces that are burning just beyond my reach.
How do I tell you that it hurt me to watch him die – not because of grief or loss or pain or a mere lack of closure – but because I didn’t get to do it with my own two hands. As I sit here, on Planet Earth, I realize that I allowed myself to be robbed of the pleasure of doing it all on my own. Taking his life. Watching him suffer. Yes, I know that he suffered, but I didn’t get to watch it. I didn’t get to inflict it. I didn’t get to bask in the pain of someone who hurt the people I love.
I regret this.
Instead, I am going to show up at his funeral, and there will be no satisfaction for this unmitigated rage. All I well get is the finality of death. There is nothing pleasing about it. I should have killed him when I had the chance. But I will never have that chance again, so instead of peace, I am filled with a blood lust that can only be sated…by something worse than all of this.