Letters From A Ghost

They say that after you kill someone, you are forever haunted by a ghost.

I was walking down the semi-deserted streets of Flic-En-Flac, cheap techno music blasting through my ears. I had that music going to firewall the foul atmosphere that was trying to penetrate me. My mp3 player flashed. Too late. The battery died out, and there were no barriers to stop those memories. I felt them wrapping around me, like tentacles gently caressing their prey. That heavy atmosphere: The murder, the atrocity of the crime. Killed. Twice. Betrayed. It all came back to me, how I was wandering through the streets, looking for my murderer. Hoping, crying... and this foul atmosphere, this suicide-inspiring atmosphere, where I lost my soul.

I was but a ghost, wandering aimlessly through those streets. I have some of the worse memories of this place: Of those badly lit streets, of this air - always smelling the same day after day and never changing. I can't believe it. I had victimized myself, pointing my finger at my killer, expecting that criminal to feel sorry.

Today I realise how wrong I had been. I should have cornered the monster somewhere, slapped it hard across the face. I should have punched, kicked, been violent. Peace is old-fashioned, deprecated; it's a war out there, and I am sick of being your average nice guy. Bitch. Yes, I should never have let you go out of here unscathed. I should have made your life a nightmare, made you pay.

But it's useless. I can't get my revenge now. So, every night, I will walk through those badly lit streets, hoping to see the spectre of you, so that I can stare at you with red eyes; yes, I loathe you, and day after day, my thoughts eternally come back to the sweet thoughts of torturing you. I have not forgotten, I will never forget. And if one day our paths ever cross again, I will no more be the semi-transparent ghost. I will make sure that you pay this time. You will pay, and very dearly. You very well know that I can forgive, but never forget.

Each side might claim that righteousness is in his camp, but I don't care. The moment I will swing the blade over your neck, I don't care whether you are innocent or guilty. Yes, I have no whatsoever regard for good or evil when it concerns you. I will swing the katana with full force, taking care to linger for a moment while the blade cuts through you. And even if my life has no sense after your head heavily thumps onto the ground, I will be satisfied. Killing is needless, but killing you has a sense, dear murderer.

I know that when you read this, you will wonder whether I have really written about you. Yes, I speak of you. All the juries in heaven and hell might declare you innocent, but I don't care. I won't be a victim anymore, I won't point fingers. I will just swing the blade, and clearly state what I think from now on. Pray to your God that our paths never cross again. But I know - I feel - that it will.

Every dog has its day, every ghost has his revenge.