#101420

There was no beauty in his death, there was no tragic poetry that might bring someone to mourn his passing. It was unceremonious. It happened quickly, and was as grotesque as one might expect a violent death to be.

For he was a bad man, dear reader. He spent even his earliest days wrapping those necrotic, ensnaring tendrils of his around the necks of any victim unfortunate enough to hear his honeyed words. Everything he touched withered, rotted, died. The living became hollow shells and found no comfort upon their own mortal beds. This was not a case of evil born of tragedy; indeed, the only tragedy in his life was that of his own creation. Rather, this was evil born. He was simply a man sowing the seed of sickness upon a world that didn't need it, for the purpose of his own shallow entertainment.

Some might confuse the words evil and chaotic. There was no chaos in the man's evil doings - in fact, I find, and have found throughout my years, that the most grievous evil comes from those who plan, who work meticulously and adhere to their schedules and lists and agendas. The man was no exception. He planned. He calculated. Every move he made was precise and intentional. Goodness blooms in chaos, and so to the best of his abilities, he choked out the chaos wherever he could find it. Like dying embers, he stomped his heavy feet to flush out the last of the light and warmth. And so, when his own time finally came (as it does for every man and every woman, and every person who falls somewhere in-between or somewhere quite outside those designations) in spite of the addage "you can't kill evil," his own light found itself choked out with all the force of the victims whose lives he had torn asunder.

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