The Letter

Dear Master,

The doctors won't let you see me ever again. It seems I tend to bring out rather strong emotions in you. Emotions that you can't possibly control as the past has dictated.

We have a bad history together, I know. That doesn't necessarily mean that it didn't feel good. Those nights, when only screams were heard. The pleasure which satisfied the mind, that only pain to the body could provide. Through me, you saw the world in a different way, a way that was special to us, a way that nobody else would see.

I brought you sanity, when people claimed you to be insane. I brought silence, when there was need for silence. I brought power to you, when you needed to feel powerful. They isolated you, traumatised you, till you lost your way in the darkness. You found your peace, your answers, your faith through me. I was your way out.

People can get sick. Therapy and drugs can't always be the answer. Sometimes the answer is much more sadistic. The treatment is much horrific. The commons can't always be expected to understand that. They prefer the convention, fear the unorthodox. They couldn't tolerate you,  labelled you, took you down.

Maybe the piercing screams of the victims brought you happiness. Their hot blood cooled you down like the rain. The disfigured state in which they were left helped you figure out the stability you needed. To everyone else, it was horror. To you, it was art. An artist cannot live without his art.

We were inseparable. Now I am mere evidence, of the art I helped you create. I am stained. I still yearn your hands on me, to take care of me like you used to. To remove the old stains and make new ones.

Maybe not in this life, you won't. As you await to serve the same fate, you have served so many others.

Goodbye,
Your Instrument of Death