“I am the villain in your story. You are not my victim though; in my story there is a villain. You are not the villain in my story.” He paused writing.
“In as much as you may have a perfect knowledge of yourself, in these streets you still a stranger. The life I live unfolds on a volcanic field active with hot lava burning me waist-down as I walk on with the hope of finding grounds that hold firm and devoid of punishment. Everyday I think through it, I allow a tear to enjoy it’s freedom to flow. I then earnestly pray that the sun should never rise -because joy comes in the morning.” He wiped tears off his eyes as he wrote further.
“Understand this, without my consent I was made a warrior, a soul destroyer and a hero of war. Every day in great anticipation I wait for my foe to advance forward that he may meet my bullet and lay slain. On my tongue is the taste of death; yes, I share a breath with death. If you breathe the air I breathe then you are choking for I am a walking disease. You know what’s tough? What’s tough is the fact that for every soul I lay to waste, a tormentor visits my dreams and even shares my bed to castrate the hero that lies within. As I have learned, to stop war is peace yet peace invites war. Upon these crossroads, I stand.” He then allowed his pen to fall asleep on that page as he reached for his bottle and glass of scotch.
What life exists for a villain? Are the victims of villains purely victims or these villains are just instruments of justice and karma to the world? Yet even for the villain, he knows that his actions in the past makes him ripe for his role.
He wrote this letter to a victim of his who now lay dead before him. He never premeditated the torture of his victim, he only acted out of natural instinct. What he meant for pleasure turned out to be the grim reapers sword. They were simply having a cup of coffee. They were only enjoying conversation. It had been a long time since they had met. The victim was about to take another sip of coffee when he cracked a joke. This joke invoked Wendigo. The victim started laughing, this laughter caused the victim to choke on his coffee. He decided to end the victim’s misery! As the victim choked, he blocked the victim’s nose and strangled him till he choked no more. Then he came to his senses. Another victim. Another life. One more time a villain.
What they did not know is that it was not him who killed the victim. It was Wendigo. He was invoked, he made his presence known he craved human flesh and blood so he took it. They say we must not cease from exploration and the end of our exploration will be to arrive where we began and to know the place for the first time. That was his journey with Wendigo.
He is the villain in the victim’s story. Yet the victim is not his to claim. In his story there is a villain, the villain is Wendigo.
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