Me, Myself, I.

Today, I am putting myself first.
I have tended to you for seven lonely years, with nobody to see my daily ache for a life of fulfilment.

You keep me here, chained to you through your need.
You are a succubus that sucks my soul dry not through sexual pull, but through your physical need.
I tend to your needs day in, day out.
No complaints as you call for food, for conversation, for clothing (Who sees you but me - Do the clothes really matter - I keep you comfortable - What is the point - What dignity is there to be had by my eyes after all these years?)

I say goodbye to you, and you are screaming at me.
As I leave, deaf to your protestations, I see the shelf of dolls that I have collected for you: One per year. Seven baby dolls looking at me, a reminder of each long year I have spent tending to you.

But here I am now, stepping out of the front door for the last time.

I have finally let the powers that be know that I cannot shoulder the load any longer. It is for them to take this burden from me.

I take a deep breath of air, as the first of the cars draws up. I stand for a few moments, eyes closed, feeling the warmth of the early morning Sun on my face. I take off my shoes, and my socks, and I feel the wet grass between my toes, the dew of the morning imbuing life into my feet.

I raise my gun, and feel the soft pad of bullets run through my body. Do I need to fall?

No, I raise my hands instead as a salute to the sun, and feel each gunshot trace its sure course through me, allowing the darkness to claim me, moment by moment, until I taste the wet dew on my lips.

I am reborn to the Earth.

They will find you in the basement, handcuffed to your bed, a row of carefully salted and desiccated babies aligned on a bookshelf.

Our children, preserved in history forever.