My Ultimate Punishment

The twisted tendrils of the forlorn heart that I once carried have finally withered and died. I have set fire to all of the bridges, readily watched them incinerate, and then stomped and trampled upon the ashes until the wind blew the last bits of memory away. The fibres of my being willingly became twisted and intertwined, forming an epitome of malevolence so evil, that any demon would willingly kiss the feet of the statue it had bowed in front of. I then overcame the odds, and defeated myself by slowly destroying the precious lives of others. I freely ran along the edges of their once extant happiness in a neverending circle of insanity, forcing the border to steadily shrink, until the cheerful lives painfully imploded. With my bloody hands, I smeared the hopeful future of the surviors, and created the ultimate picture of deep, dark, doom. I have destroyed my own life, the lives of those close to me, and the future that once would have occured. I am not worthy of death, nor am I pure enough for torture. My ultimate punishment is living as myself.