After the events of that fateful Black Sunday I shan't mention, I felt like I was used up, worn out, an empty vessel with nothing left to lose. I'd sit wherever I'd happen to wake up, laying in a door way or a detritus-filled alley, wiping the dust from my face under the hot sun, coming down from last hit, the last injection of meaning into my pitiful existence.
Of course, the empty vessel has empty veins and only an empty bottle to it's name now. I'm all used up, not even the smack to keep me from feeling hat emptiness gnawing at my guts. I wish it would rain, anything to wash the blood off my face, to force that pulsing guilt from my brain but that pain, I feel it again after so long running away, burying it under drugs and booze and denial.
You wouldn't have thought it, to look at me now, that I was responsible for the massacre. A bum like me doesn't look much like a terrorist like they show on TV, though I do have a beard. Some profiling there for ya. Even so, I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder, feeling like the millions I that pass me by without a thought every day will whisper the fact of my existence to those that want to bring me to justice. I wouldn't blame them, I deserve death - I've been killing myself for years and I'm killing myself again now, looking for that next slice of oblivion, killing myself on the inside until my body just gives up. Maybe I'm dying faster now, it seems like each step from hit to hit gets shorter and shorter nowadays, but nothing ever lasts. There'll be a time when it can't come soon enough and I'll have to face my past.
Speaking of which, I remember a night from my past, when I was stabbed in the back by my so called compatriots. The night of that fateful Sunday, the one I've been trying so hard to forget. Yes, it's all coming back now, god, I need a something, anything. All that guilt, that pain, I can feel it again.
You know? I abhor my leader, I condemn him. This pain I feel will never end but he got away without a scratch because he doesn't feel anything. He thinks he walks the righteous path, the self-deluded psycho. I was a fool to get swept up in it, a fool, no, a monster to do the things he told me to. I almost have to laugh at the realisation but I know what I must do. The guy better watch his back.
That pathetic opposition to this great land, they're the cause of my condition and rather than drinking and drugging myself to an early grave, a slow death in an attempt for absolution I'll be coming back for them now. Yes, I've a solution for this sad situation. There is nothing left but to kill myself again, but this time the bomb will go off and this time it wont be innocents, it'll be murderers I take down. I deserve to die, that's only justice. But maybe I can make things right because right now I'm so empty that nothing will fill the void.
I still have my contacts. I'll find them, I'll end them and maybe, just maybe, I'll find forgiveness in there hereafter.