Copyright (c) 1989 Ashtoreth (William Haas)
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                                    The Feast

         I have killed all my friends.  The chainsword whirs blamelessly, and
    its destructive power is subtle; nearly invisible to my dangerously simpli-
    fied mind.  There is only my dealing of death, and the retribution of
    others; therefore, my own sword cannot hurt me.  My thinking is flawed; it
    is all I can do not to touch the teeth of the sword.
         The sword need not be cleaned after it is blooded.  The gore is flung
    off the teeth, and it covers me.  It is my woad, my warpaint.  It covers
    my armor, encrusts it; and gives me the smell of the rotting, lifeless
    thing I should rightfully be.
         I called them all to break bread at my table tonight in order to bid
    them farewell.  Of course they did not understand what I implied.  Some of
    them should have guessed; after all, I had truly departed long ago.  I
    slaughtered them all.  I should have nevr been able to accomplish it; but
    trust and caring and love leaves one vulnerable and very, very unprepared,
    as I knew all too well.  They died while their lives were bright.  I could
    have left them with the darkest moments in their lives as their final
    thoughts, stretched out into an eternity.  I killed them before they met
    the same fate that has befallen me.  I could have done them no greater
    service.
         And yet I hated them, resented them for not being able or willing to
    set me free, and for having a freedom which I was for some reason denied.
    So I did not kill them gently.  I dealt them all the horrors that my
    demon-sword could afford them.  Those who tried to run never made it to
    the doors.  I did not think myself capable of battling a roomful of people.
    It was with that idea that I had attacked them.
         The ones who stood their ground were prepared to destroy me as they
    would any enemy.  Part of me was saddened and outraged that they could so
    easily turn against me; and part of me took pleasure in their understanding
    of the basic truths under which we labor.  They were no match for whatever
    thing I had become in that moment.  I battled them, and they were nothing
    to me, physically or emotionally, and all the while I invited them to kill
    me.  They believed that I was taunting them; but I was begging, pleading
    to them to end the unlife which I had been cast into.  They could not.
         I fought them to a man.  It was obvious to us both that he would not
    live, and I imagined that in that moment he knew what I had wanted of them
    when I had attacked them.  He was overwhelmed, and he lost his skills in
    his fear, and I beat him to the floor.  As he cowered, I tossed my sword
    aside and reached for his neck, and then I lifted him above the floor.  His
    body had slackened; he had submitted utterly to the idea that he would soon
    be dead.  "Why can't you kill me?!!" I shouted with the greatest noise that
    had ever escaped me, and shook him until his neck broke.  I would receive
    no answer.  This was no better than I had ever expected.
         I dropped the body.  Were I human, I would have wept; but all I did
    was look over the scene, thoughtlessly.  It pained me to have my body
    labor on when my soul was destroyed; and perhaps this was why I was so
    eager to feel the cut of my own blade.  After a moment of quiet contempla-
    tion, I seated myself and finished my meal.