REQUIEM
- S. Henderson
I think regret is the word that best comes to mind right now. Why wouldn’t it, after all? Thirty-eight years alive and death is already laying its hand on my shoulder, tugging me towards darkness. So I should be feeling regret, thinking about regret, being regretful. Yet I find myself less solemn than I should be. All my failures should be weighing down on me. The hatred everyone feels towards me should be destroying me. My own wife, left alone, not able to even be by my side at my death. But in these last few moments, all those negative ideas feel wasted. My sadness does not prevent my death, nor will it lead to any form of atonement. My fate is written; the last few words of my story are inked onto the page already. So I find myself rather light, and rather proud of myself. I failed everyone who looked to me for leadership, yes, but I was fantastic as who I was. No matter what happens, I feel my name will be etched into history forever. It’s easier to rest knowing I’ll never be forgotten. I leave this world not a martyr, but a monument. A memorial for the old world, the last man standing at the end of the line. Maybe, one day, someone will look back upon this life of mine and exclaim that ‘he was magnificent!’. I feel that hope will carry me into death peacefully.
You have stripped me of my crown, so I shall not call myself king. I shall simply bid you all adieu as myself.
Louis-Auguste de France; exit stage right.