Once, some time ago, I was wrongfully accused of being mad. Mad! This claim was without context and without reason. How could one with intellect and resolve consistent with mine ever be deemed guilty of this plight? No — it was not true when spoken and certainly not later — that is to say now. Certainly not. 

As for the speaker of the heinous words, he, a colleague of sorts, was handled in a manner proportionate to that of his crime — needless to say, his vile words would never harm another innocent. Never again. I made sure of this! On reflection of my actions, I was initially overcome with a crushing sense of guilt. What had I just concluded? My actions — my crimes!

A second look, a lengthy meditation — a vision of sorts — fixed my opinion. This man, this vile man with his vile words, was silenced. His bruising and repugnant and outrageous and abhorrent words would never reach the ear of another innocent. They would never crush the spirit of another hopeful. They would never trample the stride of another virtuous! With these thoughts — these brilliant pinpoints of lights dancing and bouncing and pinging around my head — I came to the sudden realization that what I had done was not only justifiable, but it was favorable! And Oh how I liked it! A deed had been gifted to society, and I had been its giver. However, I was not mad — and still am not! Nor was I ignorant of society’s ideology. I knew that society, with their own intangible rules, would not agree with my methods. The results they would reap but they had not the will to justify the means. A fine example of injustice — of madness! 

And so a need to dissemble the body was presented, and I did so with such cleverness. Only I, with a cunning unmatched, could have hidden this doing. Society knew not of my actions, and yet, I still felt their gratitude. With every trifling conversation and every mundane glance, I could feel their praise. How I felt it then, and how I still feel it! — that electrifying jolt which rises through my body and urges me on. Oh how they looked! Oh how I delighted in it!

It was around this time that my intellectual prowess became known around the world. The man which I silenced was regrettably known to many — the single flaw in an otherwise lustrous plan. The papers absolutely raved, for ages these stories were propagated. My name somehow became coupled to the vile man’s death, and so, it became a household name. Some say it became synonymous with madness — Oh how I long to meet the speaker of those words! Their gross misinterpretation gives no justice and has no claim to the truth. My name — my good name — became synonymous with a unquenchable thirst for progress. Society saw it, even if some maliciously claimed the contrary. That is what I sought — progress. It seems so clear to me in the present. Progress was the name in which the vile man was silenced. His end had progressed our world, bettering it every second he was not present to violate it, had it not? But of course my new-found fame came with those who wished ill of me — those who would do whatever they thought necessary to bring me down. To bring me to “justice”, they claimed. But might I ask what justice is? If our definitions are contrasting in nature, why then should I be subjected to the consequences of yours? 

I was promptly invited — less than cordially — to the very den of these justice seekers. When I made my position clear, I was once again dismissed as mad. Mad! I detested the very pronunciation of that word, it’s singular syllable a grizzled nail running across my ears. My repeated and vigorous attempts to defend my good name — for it was so good! — only seem to aid in my wrongful subjugation. However, due solely to my utter cunningness — and perhaps their lack of evidence — I escaped without punishment or reprimand, much to the indignation of those justice seekers. Oh how I left their company chuckling, my voracious laugh echoing through the desolately somber streets. They claimed even my laugh mad. As if something as pure an action as laughing could ever be interpreted as anything less than that the respite an innocent feels after being freed. Of a shackled being given the key to their exemption! That is, at least, what I cared to divulge to them.

Once outside of the den I beheld a truly wretched night. Darkness reigned, filling every gap and oozing through every nook. The thickness of the gloom made it feel so visceral — so alive. The other side of the street soon fell victim to the black. Then the narrow cobbled street. Then even the den just behind me slid into obscurity. It crept up on me, slowly at first — almost gently. Bit by bit, it rose from my feet, like a snake coiling around it’s prey. Up and up and up it went. A few more seconds would have been all it needed for me to be wholly and completely consumed. Yet before I was, a small light sparked into life. Deep down the street it shone, batting away the shadows. It was then that I saw him. Or rather — it. It was the vile man that I had silenced. When dissembling the body, I made sure to disperse the evidence thoroughly and in varied locations. Yet here he stood, a testament to the mad, evidence collected and reanimated. It stood there, perfectly still, clutching the light in it’s ghastly hand. A deeply rooted fear took hold of me — grabbed and shook me! — and I ran. As fast as I was capable. Faster even.

A quick glance behind me revealed it was not only pursuing, but closing it. The light in it’s hand had long since fallen, but still an illusive glow seemed to illuminate the frightful gore. My heart was pouncing, lungs burning, head swimming, and still I could hear it behind me. The sound of our steps on the rutted cobbled streets soon became one, unified in grim harmony, reverberating throughout the night. Faster still I ran. As it closed in, nearer and nearer, that light — that cursed light! — kept growing brighter. And yet each time I thought it was over, thought my last breath was taken and last thought constructed, I would slip through it’s foul fingers. Seemingly always imminent in my capture, I quickly realized it’s true goal. It sought not the catch, but the pursuit. There would be no liberation or escape. I would be chased until I could be chased no more. 

As I continued to run, all I could think of was the irony of the situation. I was a sane man outrunning his insanity, never truly breaking free, veering ever closer to the dark depths of madness.