If one were to hold to my head that gun you’ve in your hand, I would admit it. I could give myself the release of admitting it.
Of what, you ask? No, no final confessions. I’m much too old for that sort of tired trope. You’ll kill me when you’re ready. You’ll kill me dead — yes, I’ve said it twice for emphasis, pun most intended — and that will be it. You will never tell anyone and so even if I had last words they would be lost words, so I won’t give you the pleasure.
No, no final confessions. Save this:
I wanted her.
Yes, her, you know who. I met her when she was three and twenty, calling her a fucking pretentious brat to her face at least twice a week for a year, and wanted my tongue in her cunt and her legs around my hips for at least half that time.
I wanted her youth and her energy, her drive and passion and empty-headed brilliance. Her hope. Her faith in her own power. Her softly hidden, just barely gauzed over insecurities that peeked through and teased the same youthful, empty-headed unbroken brat inside of me.
I wanted her. I wanted to love her.
I wanted you.
I wanted to love the you before, when you were her and not this cold, reptilian revenant that you’ve drained your own soul to become.
You. I wanted you, I loved you, and now, now you will take that gun, you will place it to my head, and you shall pull the trigger. You must. There is no other way out of this room. We are locked in this Chinese finger trap of your own making.
(Why did you never tell me?)
Why? Oh, darling, you prat, look at us! This was the only ending from the first day we met. You looked at me and I knew: your ambition was greater than your empathy, and empathy is only earned at great cost.
I am your great cost.
So, darling, go ahead and pay it.