I must say, there's something poetic about it. That the first murder in human history was born from envy. A lesson carved into the fabric of existence: to covet is to kill.
When I first heard the tale, I couldn't understand the man's heart. But now? Now, my very bones resonate with Cain's bitterness. To see, so clearly, the measure of your own worthlessness—and to witness, in unbearable contrast, those who lack for nothing, who live in comfort, secure in the shape of themselves. It is enough to drive a man to madness.
Enough to drive me to lace an innocent man's food with laxatives. To slip into his home, his compound, his forest—scattering [HELPING HANDS] in the shadows, waiting, watching. I needed something, anything, to justify the crime I longed to commit. A single sin to weigh against the one I wished to claim for myself.
And yet, all I unearthed was kinship.
Not a [WITCH], no. But a man whose tastes mirrored my own—one who found beauty in the inhuman. His affections, however, were tethered to something ancient, a forgotten goddess with a credible head. He turned to the occult in pursuit of her, desperate for even the briefest audience, a single moment to offer her his devotion.
Some might call it lunacy.
But I, the creator of a certain malicious princess, know what it means to be enthralled.
And worse yet, I mistook his secrecy for malice. Assumed he hoarded his cabin's rooms with sinister intent, when in truth, he merely sought to fund his courtship while evading the iron grip of taxation.
A tragedy.
I even considered aiding his cause with my [WITCHCRAFT], but [Hjálparhönd] vetoed the notion before it could take root.
So, left without recourse for recompense, I turned to punishment. But I am no fool—I do not suffer for suffering's sake. The purpose of punishment is to learn.
Thus, today's lesson will be a study in execution.
A test of death, by my own design.
Hjálparhönd will serve as executioner. I, the condemned.
The first method: shooting.
Of course, with her, no mere firearm will suffice. Her nail guns—her claws, the nails she fires from the [HELPING HANDS]—will serve as our instrument.
I have stripped down to my red, moisture-wicking performance boxers to preserve my clothing. I am bound, suspended, wrapped in her straightjacket—the [COAT OF MANY HANDS], [COMH] for short. The touch of her hands upon me is strange. I do not hang so much as I float. The weight of my body does not crush me. It is… natural. As if I belong in her grasp.
A curiosity for another time.
For now, there is a more pressing matter.
I must convince her to shoot me.
Not difficult in execution, but unpleasant in principle. For it requires me to deceive her, to manipulate her naïveté. And that… that pains me.
Nonetheless.
"Hjálparhönd, this may seem insane, but I need you to shoot me."
Her expression does not change, but the contempt is palpable in the words scrawled upon her hand.
'I SEE. IT APPEARS I WAS MISTAKEN IN AGREEING TO THIS JOURNEY. HAS ISOLATION ALREADY ROTTED WHAT LITTLE SURVIVAL INSTINCT YOU POSSESSED?'
A dull ache flares in my chest.
She has grown sharper these past few days. Her words, edged. Her thoughts, ever at odds with my own.
Ah. I couldn't be more proud.
What kind of creator would desire blind obedience? No, the joy of creation lies in opposition—planting a thought in her mind, watching as she rejects it, then seeing her, inevitably, come to understand.
"You misunderstand, my dear. I do not seek harm without purpose. This is ritual. A tradition used to identify [WITCHES].
Long ago, those accused were bound and cast into water. If they sank, they were innocent. If they floated, they were condemned.
What we are doing here is a reinterpretation. A mere formality. We already know I am a [WITCH]. There is no risk, no true danger."
That is a lie.
But a framing of tradition has a way of making madness palata—
BANG
Less than a second later a nail drives into my chest. A moment later, the wound blossoms, a hole the size of a coin torn through flesh and bone.
Pain.
Pain.
Pain.
It hurts.
It hurts.
It hurts like hell.
But it is only the second-worst pain I have known.
The first belongs to [THE WASTED DEAD HEAT OF MALICE]—the killing [MAGIC] forged by [MEGIDO ARC], a tool to destroy her creator as an expression of her free will.
That ordeal planted a thought in my mind: that my [DOLLS] cannot truly harm me.
A belief now challenged by the nail lodged in my chest.
And yet.
I still stand.
I still perceive.
Thus, the belief must be true. And if it is true, then it is my duty as a [WITCH] to give shape to this phenomenon through speculation.
I recall a memory—no, a game.
A machine, a coin, a gun. The machine flips the coin, the machine fires the gun, the bullet strikes the coin and ricochets, its force multiplied beyond logic.
Thus, I envision it.
I am the coin.
The nails ricochet from my flesh.
And as thought gives way to reality, the wound in my chest is no longer mine to bear. A tree, meters away, is left gaping in my stead—a hole, no longer the size of a coin, but of a basketball.
That concludes my [WITCHCRAFTING].
Now that Hjálparhönd knows I will not die, she and I can proceed with the more… elaborate executions. Short-drop hanging. Decapitation by sawing. A brazen bull wrought from [HELPING HANDS].
Five days of pain, for the sake of atonement.
Five days of pain, for the sake of learning.
And when it is done, I will return to the man I have wronged. I will apologize. I will compensate him. And I will leave.
This mountain retreat will conclude without incident.
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Yes. That is how it was meant to be.
And yet—
And yet.
Something happened.
Something terrible happened.