Space is limited here in the box. It reminds me of the other boxes I left behind. The bullies’ spaces, after dying.
Like this glass compartment, a viewing booth of sorts, their boxes were sterile, clean. So were their bodies. The ichor I left behind was sponged off by a hapless assistant. Their faces were likewise wiped clean of expression; their evil leers were gone, wiped off by myself so as to produce their grimaces of fear; I had anticipated that, planned it. I knew that finally fighting back would give them pause. Coffins are cramped.
I’ve been confined here for a good long while. Most of my memories of my old life of fear are gone, but the murders I committed are vivid still.
Emotions don’t fit here in my cockpit. Tantrums, sobbing, neurotic giggles have all been left behind me; this is the numbness of a terminal, but endless, depression.
The telephones still wring me, but since I know it’s useless to try to answer, I veered away in my mental jet, battle over.
Is it always so cramped for the pilot?