Note: This isn't a story so much as a paragraph. But if you knew how
long my BitchMuse has been in the Carribean, you'd send me feedback anyway.


A LAMPSHADE

I have tracked you across continents and years. 

I have bought your name and your foxhole and your list of 
crimes. 

I have found you hiding here, and found you are not hiding, 
after all.


You are living in peace. You are living in *suburbia*. You 
have pleasant neighbours. You have a wife and children, and 
grand-children. You go to church every Sunday, and _*how 
dare you*_... 

I have seen you smile. 

I have seen you play the piano, badly, and laugh.

I have seen you in your garden, picking weeds contentedly, I 
have seen you give sweets to children, and wanted to rip 
them from their hands. They might turn to ashes if you touch 
them, grow dirty and die slowly, wake sobbing every night 
for the rest of their lives...

You are an old man and powerful no longer. 

You are despicable and weak.

You are content, and at ease, and _*you have no right*_ ---


I would have given you no mercy, if I'd found you alone and 
without hope. No shows of repentance would have ever moved 
me. I'd not have let you live, even if you'd grieved for 
your sins and reached hopelessly for redemption, if the 
weight of what you've done had been crushing you all these 
years -- 

If you'd begged me for your death, knowing you deserved it --
I would only have agreed. 


But you do not live in guilt.

You do not live in fear. You do not wake from nightmares, 
screaming. 

The blood of thousands does not linger on your conscience, 
and yours will not linger on mine. 


Death flickers in my fingertips. 

Iron sings to me from under your skin.


I close my fist around your empty heart and squeeze.



~end.