~Steele~ Writer.

Looks like you’ve lived up to your namesake.

You miserable fuck.

Spence brought August back a couple hours after he posted, so we all basically knew what to expect…

But we could never be ready. Not for that. You took the best amongst us, and turned him into a fucking billboard, another brick for your writings on the wall.

I heard a scream. I don’t know if it was one of us, or just the sense of…security, family…hope…we had, audibly tearing. I felt Him in my mind, and motherfucker, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear He was smiling. And it was all I could do to smile back, for I wouldn’t give Him the satisfaction of crying. A toothy grin, or was it a grimace? A mechanical response to an offensive stimulus. No thoughts.

Nothing.

There is nothing left for any of us. Maybe we were just kidding ourselves into thinking there ever was. Our jokes, our friendships…miniscule in the face of the Abyss. The endless darkness into which all of us have fallen. Our moments of brightness like the spark of a match; igniting the darkness for a few beautiful seconds.

Then burning out.

We buried him, Writer. Out in the forest. Spencer was not in attendance, I’m sure you’ll be sorry to know. When he walked in with August, he said only one thing.

”Start looking for a replacement.”

Then he went off to the Wing, and we haven’t seen him since.

So I dug August’s grave, and we all said a few words. It was a simple service. Nobody dared to read from the Bible. All that jazz about hope, forgiveness, compassion…

All those life values that they so love to spruik in the churches, to pacify the congregation. What’d Marx call it again? “Opium of the people”?

Real opium works better. Less people die because of real opium.

But I digress. This isn’t about religion, Writer, this is about August, and it’s about you.

Funny isn’t it? We’ve lost so many along the way, but it’s always been just a part of the job. Just business. Never have we had one of ours murdered to send a message. Not like this. We took it hard. I’m taking it hard. (I see absolutely no point in that fucked up masquerade people go through. It’s all fine. I’m okay. It detracts from the memory of the dead to act like you don’t give a damn.)

Unfortunately, you may have made an error in your calculations.

Of all people to take from us: you took our moral guidelines. You took from us the final bastion of innocence, and you took from us the last one keeping us together as a team.

Hope, forgiveness, compassion.

No thank you.

As I dug August’s grave, all I could think about was digging another one. A lot more shallow, and in a less scenic location. For you, Writer, for you.

Maybe a garbage can. Or an alleyway. Maybe both! Maybe a couple of garbage cans and alleyways, actually, you won’t need to be in one piece by the end of it.

I’m going to kill you, you depraved son of a bitch. I don’t know when, and I don’t know how, but I am going to murder you. I’ll hold a gun to your head and pull the trigger, watch as whatever fucked up shit you have in there instead of a brain comes out the other side. I hope it’s black. I’m going to carve my name into your skin with a hot knife, so when you end up back in the Abyss with Mr. Thin, He’ll know who sent you home. I’m going to see you wither into a husk as you burn. Not in Hell, you know as well as I do that that’s a silly concept, but maybe in a bonfire. Joan of Arc style. Extra crispy. I’m going to hold you under water until the bubbles stop. I’m going to smother you with your own disgusting hair. I am going to scalp you.

And I’m going to do it with a smile on my face. Of pure glee.

Consider yourself marked.