"You're not sitting on that throne of power; you're chained to it."
Meet Harper Kadric. Cold. Cynical. Smart. Shrewd. She's on the warpath with a meticulous plan to execute revenge, and deliver rightful justice...in a wrongful way.
Enter Jared Mour...
Look, I'm really sorry if that's my fault, I didn't mean for you to think about her again...
No, it's alright. I'd be insane to completely forget her anyway. It's just unbelievably brutal, isn't it? To unconditionally love someone like that, and have her taken away from you? Without warning?
Brutal is one word. Among harsh, and unfair.
If bad things happen for a reason, what was the reason for her to die? What was it? I've driven myself crazy trying to find an answer to that question, and I still haven't found one. The pastor's reply was that her time with us had to cease for her to be with the Lord. What does that even fucking mean?
It's just something religious he spouted to sound all holier than thou. He knows he can say whatever he wants in his robes because he can get away with it.
You know how much it hurt when she took her last breath? It hurt so, so damn much, till I went blind and deaf with the pain, and all I wanted was to die. I really thought that pain like that could just kill a person. It had to. It was that strong. But that's the thing. It never did kill me. I was still bloody alive, I could still bloody wake up and see all the sunrises she was missing. I was dying, but I wasn't dead. That was what hurt the most. To know that there was no end, that it's just pure, slow, drawn-out torture, just enough to keep you hovering on the cliff-edge, the rapids gushing beneath you and laughing their heart out because they know you'd just be hanging on, and you'd never fall.
I know, I'm so sorry. You really were an absolute wreck back then.
I was, wasn't I? And I think I still am. Things like that apparently are meant to make you come out stronger on the other end, but I don't think I am. I don't think I came out better, or any tougher. All I felt was this dead, heavy weight, like I had a concrete slab in place of a heart. Everybody else thought I'd moved on; but that doesn't mean anything. People see what they want to see. It's how I saw her too. Beautiful. Kind. Smart. Didn't see how thin she'd gotten, the dullness in her eyes, how she tired easily.
Hey. Come on now. Pick yourself up. She wouldn't want to see you like this.
She wouldn't want to see ANY of this. She'd totally be on my side.
Would she? Think about it. Really think about it. Would she really let you solve this mess with that gun?
It's not something she would do but it's something I would. And she doesn't know that, so she would say no.
Why would she not know that?
Because I didn't really start solving problems by spilling blood until after she died, did I? I didn't used to be this person when she was alive. I didn't come out stronger on the other side, but I guess I did come out a murderer. I don't know. I don't care. Thinking about her and this fucking mess is too much. They're separate. They're not the same.
You're right, they're not. Oh, and also: murder's not always the answer.
Yeah. But sometimes, it is.
___
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
