Late last night, deep down in the crevices and the ether of my conscience, I came to terms with your death. You were an awful human being and as I held your hand in the last moments of your life, I could only recall you beating me senseless until I came to my senses.
Even then, in looking at your cold, blue face, with my finger on the call button, and debating whether I wanted to share these seconds with someone who would feel sorry for you, I could not summon the empathy. Your cold lips were meant to be blue. The veins in your hands were meant to protrude. The fissures of your crow's feet were deeper than ever before. If only you could have looked this way in life, like a scarecrow, repelling the children from those demons of yours. You were a bastard of the highest order, always sniffing for blood that did not belong to you, life that did not belong to you. For this I could never forgive you.
I squeezed your fingers good and tight, to make sure what was left of your blood was icing over. I wanted even the nurse to know your reptilian ways. And even if I left this room, even if I left you unattended, unaccounted for, they would find you tomorrow morning. They would find you today. And they would chalk up the discoloration to time lapsed.
But I would know you, night after night, even in the calm breeze through the Cypress outside my window, even with that white noise I survived upon, I would hear your private hells. For in the ides and ides of my mortal circumference, I would dream of your gluttonous reveries, your Eschered nutcracker dreams, and of people putting the roundabout on you and those swirling eyes of yours.
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