Broken Spirit’s Lament

This is my little world, full of sunshine and flowers. Everything is happy; sorrow cannot find me here.

But soon gray skies overshadow, and the rain comes pouring in; I am torn out of my happy world to find those same metal walls surrounding me. No matter how I cry, no matter what I do, I know that I will never be free.

What atrocities are laid to the count of one who would value his own wretched life over that of an innocent? One who to save his own bloodstained existence would steal a child’s? Whatever charges are laid to his account, I know will befall my own; the sins of my past are what I cannot escape from. Even though those days are behind me, the spirits of the victims haunt me still.

Why? Why? What cowardice is this? Why couldn’t I run away? What could they do to me if I disobeyed their order for blood? Torture me? As if the life they made me live were anything less than torture already! Kill me? As if that were not my greatest wish!

What deranged mind would conceive of the plan they put into me? From my very birth I have been surrounded by death. I am experiment number one hundred and thirty-seven, so far the only one to survive past the age of two. Not knowing why, they would cut me up. Slice me open, fully conscious, just like a miserable lab rat… is that all I am? All I was created to be? Is that why they made me this way? Why they altered my very DNA? Is my destiny to be their instrument of murder? If so, my destiny was made so by the forging of their own hands—so even though there is a river of blood I will be called to answer for, surely at least my blood, and the blood of the hundreds of human experiments that came before and after me, are on their account.

An instrument of murder. I have always been told that this is all I am. Every night I ask, if there is a God, why didn’t He kill me? Why couldn’t He set me free? Only in death could I escape my eternal nightmare. And yet even that solace I am denied. Whatever they did to me, I may be unable to comprehend, but it has prevented even the most fatal of wounds from ever releasing me from this living death.

Well then, shall I take revenge? My fate is already sealed. I will rot in hell for eternity. So what is the murder of a dozen scientists to me? I must stop their madness. But I do not claim to be righteous even in this. For in my heart I am not in this just to prevent them from destroying any more lives. I am in this for vengeance.

So if they want me to be an instrument of murder, I’ll play the requiem to usher in the Reaper for them.

Just as I have so many hundreds before them, on those scientists’ own orders, before I even reached the age of ten.

Revenge is sweet. But guilt is bitter. And the stinging of guilt far overshadows the elation of revenge. So still, no matter what, I will never be free.

My little world of happiness, slowly it melts away. And all that I am left with is a graveyard. A lifeless field of tombs from which the spirits of the murdered arise. When I close my eyes, I see them. When it is quiet, I hear them. Their faces full of fear, their cries for mercy, their dying screams. And the guilt that forever consumes me just as the earth consumes the dead.

And inside this little world I am eternally trapped.