So, how will it be? Poison? That would be delicious. To imagine it palpitating, arms and legs kicking out, reaching out, grasping to any tendrils of forgotten hope, as the cyanide (or strychnine) reacts and does its work in It’s body. To watch it pleading, begging for another chance, another life would be intense. But no, not poison. I want to feel It dying. I want to laugh as It dies; I want to cackle at its dying body with all the glee and fury of decades of repressed hate. No, not poison.
I remember how it smirked at me, so many years ago, back when we were teenagers. The awkward phase of adolescence had been kind to me, I had thought, till It saw me. Of course It was perfect. People like It always are. The epitome of beauty and grace.
I hated It the day I saw it.
Rope? To see it clawing, desperate at those coils of string, tightly bound agents of destruction, to see It cry, bent and hopeless, to see It die the way It once tried to kill me, back when I was seventeen. I had barely managed to survive It’s hateful glare. The doctors thought I had attempted suicide. Hell, I knew. And even though I tried to tell, none would believe me. It was too perfect. Not rope. Not anything that will give it a chance of escape.
I show It my collars. They are burnt with the rope that It once made me wear, like a common mongrel.
My hands. Perfectly capable of dealing death. To feel that crunch of skin and blood, the sound of bones cracking, the smell of life seeping away. I dare say I have survived a few brawls in this life. Always, I would fight back. Never took it standing. No, I would lash out, punch and scratch, imagining my opponent to be It, to take my revenge. All for that one-day when I did not fight back. That one day I lost the most important thing for me. Not my hands. They do not deserve It’s filthy innards. It never deigned to touch me like that, anyway.
That day, I had lost respect. My own. My whole life had been spent on trying to get it back.
Water. Dunk its head inside water, and the strongest people die. It will lash out, a last display of strength. But then, it will breathe in. It is inevitable. They all do. The lungs will slowly fill with water, her brain will destroy itself. Like the many days It did the same with me. Always holding me under the toilet seat till the last moment, as I struggled in vain and in hope and then resuscitation. No, not water. I do not trust myself to hold It there. It is strong. I ought to know.
I can breathe underwater like a fish now.
A gun. A bullet, shot with incredible momentum, embedding itself in It’s brain, the nerve center’s crashing, the last breath, and Salvation. Or a gun somewhere else. More private places. Like It did for me. A game of Russian Roulette. No, not a gun. It will die too soon. That is not what I want. I want it to suffer as I did, the grim anticipation of a swiftly approaching death.
A knife. Twist it viciously in It’s kidneys, drink in the blood gushing out, take a deep breath of what was never granted to me, freedom. I roll up my sleeves. I show it my bruises and cuts, still unhealed. Still painful. A knife. A slow death, guaranteed pain. Yes, that shall be my weapon.
It loved this knife.
I take my knife near it. It’s shriveled body burns with the anticipation. I shiver. It shivers. Then I throw the knife down. The person standing in front of me smiles. An evil smile. I shudder. I try to run from the mirror.
I never could run away from It.