• I leaned forward, smiling softly at Jonathan. In the past year since I was placed in the care of Institution 90, he had remained faithful to me, and visited me whenever they allowed it.
    Sadness washed over me when I realized I had to face the reality that this would be his last visit before I died. Had I a heart, I am quite positive that at that moment, it would have been shattered. However, whatever heart I had was long gone- lost in the fire. No longer did it exist, so long as the voices in my head did not.
    "Jonathan, I want you to kill me," I said suddenly, thinking of a way to die honorably. Even I, a heartless monster, would rather die by the hands of someone who loves me. To be poisoned and die slowly did not appeal to me. At least Jonathan would make it as quick and painless as possible.
    Almost choking, Jonathan's eyes bulged. I could see the conflicting expression on his face. "Wh-why, Lisim?" he asked, with glazed eyes and a forced calm tone.
    "Jonathan, whatever fragment of love that I have, belongs to you," I whispered, leaning forward further, pressing my lips to his. He will never know how great a puppet he has been. Until the very end, I use him. "Please, do it for the one you love."
    "Fine," he spat, kissing me back. "On one condition."
    "Anything."
    For a few moments, he remained silent, and then finally spoke. "Tell me, whose child was it that you bore, and then gave away?" The atmosphere that came off of him almost crushed me. He looked almost disgusted by me.
    I gulped. He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from my lips. "She was your daughter," I admitted after a moment of silence.
    "What did you name her?" he asked softly, as if he were asking his lover the name of their child. Only, she wasn't ours. She belonged to someone else.
    Clearing my throat, I replied, weak-voiced, "Dahlia Anne Reynolds, is her name. If you want to find her, the address is in my journal. My journal is yours once I die. I will be damned if the psych ward gets ahold of it."
    "Do not talk about your death so lightly," Jonathan whispered, pressing his lips to mine before standing, and leaving the visitation hall.

    ~


    Three hours before my execution. Jonathan and I are in a private visitation room, holding hands across the table.
    "Are you sure about this?" he asks, his grip on my hand tightening. I nod in reply, still writing.
    As I write this, he presses his lips to mine for the very last time. Now he edges his hands up my arms, tracing up along to my neck. He seems to be savoring the feel of my skin. It almost makes me feel regret for how I lived my life. What I could have had suddenly appeals to me.
    As I write this, I make my final statement. I can feel Jonathan's clammy, sweaty hands on my neck, brushing against my skin tenderly for the last moments.
    We are humans. Emotions rule our race with an iron fist. Our theories are mainly lies. Never have we made enough impact on the universe as one species, as much as we believe it. We, ourselves, are lies because of this. Due to our own gullibility to our own ideals, our idiocy, and the human race's existence, never have we, nor never will we, amount to anything. For we are all merely puppets in an infinity, that nobody but the puppet masters themselves, will ever understand.