Good is dead. Bad killed it.
I sat with them both, once. Life was jolly good then you see?? With not a care in the world, we sat to dinner and walked to movies. Our lives was not a fairytale, but it felt like it. One was more fun than the other though, but I loved them all equally .
To think that the rich woman just over at buckingwood had her purse stolen that night on her way from the theatre with her lover, and had it sent to her in a parcel two weeks after the funeral of her man. I thought to myself. Why! she could console herself better if she got to see the purse again right? I didn't have much use for it anyways. One is lost, another is found, I said to myself while I hid just across the road in time to see the purse delivered to her. I saw her receive the delivery and sign. But before the delivery man could walk two poles I saw her silhouette across the room burst again into tears, and this baffled me.
I did good.
Ms Rosé-Marie could see that, surely. Why then the tears?
I understand her lover, Wilsham was killed and buried. I mean I killed him. He's always had a mean look about him, that man. One less mean person in the world, I had thought when I stabbed his jugular artery with my pen.
Ms Rosé-Marie ought to be glad I rid the world of such meaness. But she ain't too good herself, right? That's why she cried. You gotta be good to know good when you see it.
Mae sat open eyed, across the room, watching the little man rattle and rant about his adventures of a fortnight, 2 months ago, with Dr Chaucer. She was amazed at how his eyes sparked when he gave "just" reasons for his actions. She was only an intern at St Michael's Ward of the Unloved. She had found the name funny at first when she applied for internship, and was surprised when they accepted her in 23 hours.
"Maybe they are understaffed", Paula told her when she broke the good news to her. " Nobody wants to intern in a bat-shit crazy institution like MWU for fear of going bat shit crazy themselves". They laughed it off then, but now things aren't looking or sounding funny anymore.
"Do you feel any remorse whatsoever for what you did to Mrs Hattie's Dog last summer?" Dr Chaucer asked.
"Don't feel no remorse wass'eva, Ser. I coulda returned the cuff and chain, you see? But she's just gonna cry lik'em others. I told you, Good is dead, Bad killed it." He smiled.