Forgive me, Mom. Forgive me, God.

I’ve forgotten how to pray, but if I could, I’d pray for a miracle. My quick fast death, first. His resurrection, second. Forgiveness, maybe third, but not until I’m dead and decaying. I want to be worm food. I remember his hot, thick blood spilling over my fingers and I think: What have I done? Committed a crime is the answer. Committed a murder. Murderer… Murderer… Murderer. This is when the drumming begins. Hours, minutes, seconds later, my sanity spills away in the same sporadic pulse. Now the real question is: what have I become? A lunatic. A psychopath. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

Alone in this white room with my heartbeat and my fingers, I laugh to myself. A small, humorless laugh that grows into a bigger one. The type of laugh that starts in your throat but ends up shaking you. I’ve become a comic book villain without the tights.