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Passion. Such a small word for such a complex thing. In our mundane society where only the rich seem to thrive, passion is the common thread that binds us. The rich and the poor, the miserable and joyfully ecstatic, we all experience passion in one form or another.
It is passion that drives us forward in life, guiding our hearts as we come across new situations. No other creature on Earth displays such a complex ideal. Animals can be energetic, or happy or even determined, but passion is defined by humanity alone. Passion was my greatest achievement, the standard by which I lived for so many years, yet in the end, it cost me everything.
Passion is blinding; the rush and exhilaration of being so completely vindicated in your own mind is as overwhelming as any drug. It is so powerful that it dominates over all other emotions including the supposedly potent power of love. Love means nothing to a devouring passion. It consumes every part of you, beginning with your thoughts and ending with your heart, until love is an ideal left to die a lonely death by the side of the road.
It’s sad how much I’ve let myself change. I mean, over the years we all change. It’s inevitable. We have to; it’s a part of life. Without change, life is stagnant and dull...lifeless.
Lifeless.
I went to see him yesterday. I do that a lot. I imagine that others think to themselves that I’m gloating when I visit him, or that I’m just savoring my victory. That thought always brings me some form of dark amusement for it is only in those self-inflicted comments that I hear the truth. I am alone.
I am alone in this world because no one will understand. No one can truly understand until they too are continuously washing that damned spot of blood from their hands. I have his blood on my hands continuously at all times of the day; it won’t let go of me.
And I can’t let go of it. I won’t let myself win. Not this time. I still hear his taunting, and the irritating sound of his self-assured ravings in my dreams at night. For a victor, I must be a sad sight, constantly murmuring to myself, dreaming of those times that he reached out to me, wishing that I hadn’t pushed him away.
It’s all my fault; I know it is despite what people say. What do they know anyway? Were they there that horrible night? Did they see his eyes, which looked so similar to my own, begin to glaze over and close in death?
Where is my passion now, I wonder? Where is the self-absorbed, scheming me of so long ago? Does it follow me as I pace about my room at night, wringing my miserable hands?
For the record, I did love him. How could I not? He was everything that I had after all and I think in his own weird way he did love me too. My own father doesn’t care about me the way he did. Dad sees how the pain tortures me each day, but as usual, science comes before his kids.
If only he were still here to confide in, to wipe his own blood from my hands.
The pool of blood on my hands grows larger in my mind with each passing day. Murder sounds so easy on paper, or to throw casually at a person. How many times did I threaten him before I finally acted? It seemed so simple, so justified at the time, but now that passion has thrown me away, I know nothing but confusion.
Have all my goals been reached now that he is dead? I don’t know anymore. What goals are worth the sacrifice of a life? I vaguely remember wanting peace in my life, and an end to the madness and rage he invoked in me, but have I really obtained any of that? Peace seems distant and far off now, and any rage I felt towards him, has now transferred itself towards myself. I hate myself and I hate him for not stopping me. For looking at me the way he did, as if he understood.
Out damned spot! Why won’t you leave me?
I should be proud. I got away with murder. Everyone always jokes about how they wish they could just kill one person and get away with it, but I’ll tell you now that it’s highly overrated. No one really misses him anyway, no one but me...and maybe Zim too.
I blamed it on Zim. Every crime has to have a scapegoat after all, and it was nothing personal. Zim probably would have killed him one day if I hadn’t have beaten him to it. I still see Zim around at skool the odd time, being feared and isolated for my crime. The police never could find any evidence against Zim, not that I expected them to anyway. He still hasn’t forgiven me for taking away his rival, for killing the boy he loved to hate, and I hope he never does. I don’t deserve forgiveness. How wretched a creature am I to be living when my older brother is dead at my own hands.
Passion. It was the one thing that tied my brother and I together, and the one thing that tore us apart. His passions were always for the good of humanity, to protect his precious Earth, while my passions are as dark as the night sky.
Passions. Desires. Selfishness. It is these things that make us human, mere slaves to the whims of our emotions. I pray daily to any god willing to take pity on a wretch like me to burn away my passion for I do not deserve to have it. Strip from me all things human since I resigned officially from humanity the instant his eyes flickered shut. Alone I now sit, just another victim to passion.