The Architect

They have always said, "Blood in your mouth beats blood on the ground." I think they have it backwards—I want blood on the ground. Not just anyone’s blood—his blood. I’m sure there will be casualties; there always are with him. I can live with that, as long as he is one of them. It has to end this way. It’s his life or mine.

Every time I close my eyes, the memories flash across my brain like an old-fashioned 1940s projector. It’s always a little blurry, but certain things stand out: the metallic taste of blood, the stinging of lacerations across my back, the moment I saw my wife and kids trapped under the rubble of what used to be our house. The way my voice trembled and cracked as I screamed for his help, the shift in his eyes as we made eye contact seconds before he catapulted himself into the air, leaving a crater in the debris of my home. I know he heard me. He hears everything. He left my life in literal ruins.

It took seven hours to unbury my wife and children. It would have taken him seconds to do it effortlessly, avoiding weeks in the hospital and multiple surgeries. For what? Because he felt someone else’s life was more important to save? At least he doesn’t have to watch his daughter get fitted for prosthetics or his wife too traumatized to leave the house. It’s not just the physical that needs healing. It’s the mental scars—you can’t escape nightmares. He doesn’t care. Some people are more special, I guess.

He has to be stopped! That wasn’t the day I became the infamous "Architect." That was just the first domino to fall. All I know is that “hero” has to die.