If Only...

I see him. That fiend. There is no other word to describe someone who has no soul. What he did is beyond unthinkable. I feel the bile start to rise and have to look away.

What kind of world is this that he is still walking free, fouling the very air with his rancid and evil shell? Lies and devastation are what he leaves in his wake. People shrink from his presence without knowing who he is or why they should feel that way. His stench escapes from every pore in his body.

I know where he lives and where he works. I know far too much about him. I also know that he won't be stopped. As much as they want him gone, the rules don't allow him to be touched. Something begins to burn.

I pick up the paper in the morning and see the most glorious headline. He is gone! They found him the way he left all of the others. The article has a tone of joy. They will never find who finished the story, for they will never look. I wonder aloud who wrote the end, and thank him.

The teapot is whistling, glass shatters on the cold tile. It is the last thing I see before I hit the floor. It sits there laughing, glinting through its stains.