(I really apologise if this is too much. Disclaimer: I am two minds as to whether this should be on here because it is really bloody dark.)
How you can sit so poker straight and uncowed is beyond me. You sit like you are entertaining a room of loyal serfs rather than standing trail for murder.
It is slightly mollifying that every time you look at me, you wilt but I want you cowering. I want you crying and begging for forgiveness. I want you pleading with the jury to have mercy. I want them to look at you with stone eyes and give you life. Even better, to give you death. I can’t say that out loud though. I campaigned for the chance of redemption when the problem was less personal… Now I can see the error of my ways.You killed my baby, it is only right that you should die too.
I can feel myself running my thumb down the blade in my pocket, staring you in your dead pupils. There is blood pooling in my palm as my fingers push into the knife edge but I don’t stop. It is your blood I’m dreaming of.
At some point, while your defense told the jury that you were “the last person on earth” who could kill my daughter, you stared back at me. This time you didn’t wilt. You jutted your chin and I watched your expression change from a thin veneer of regret to smug condescension.You think you’ve won.
The jury break to make their decision. It isn’t enough. No matter what they decide, it isn’t enough.
You watch the smile spread across my face and the muscles jump tighter in my neck. You see my eyes flicker and my weight shift forward.
I am about five feet away. There is no guard watching me, only you. I have long strides. It takes 72 to get to my local corner shop and 231 to the local park. It used to take my daughter 495.
It takes three strides to get to you. One out of the pew, one to round the corner and one to place me right in front of your throat. As I pull the blade from my trouser pocket, I notice my blood covering the metal, the handle, my wrist. It sickens me to think of my blood mixing with yours but this is for her.
My smile is a broad, toothy grin now and as I slide the blade into that soft part above your collar bone, it just grows wider.
You begin gargling blood and it is off-puttingly uncouth. As I take the knife to my own throat, though, I forget to watch. It hurts more than my hand did. I briefly wonder if this what she would have wanted but that soon disappears. I realise I am gargling blood as well now. How disappointing. I look just like you.
Then I’m gone… or at least, I am not where I was. Neither are you, you arrogant, grotesque peasant of a murder. You are at the seat of her throne in a pool of blood and I can just watch you writhe.
The Beret Broadcast 