The man I will murder

THERE'S a man I wish to kill. His name is God.

He’s a good guy, I am told. Great, in fact. Fair, and just, and all the rest.

I thought so too. For a long time. Then I wasn’t so sure.

He didn’t stand up to reason. Didn’t stand up when it counted. And when it didn’t, and he did, it was only after he claimed his bribe in blood.

My blood.

Perhaps he is old, he has arthritis, it’s difficult for him to stand. Perhaps he missed his cue. Perhaps, like in Bruce Almighty, he’s on holiday.

Fair enough. He deserves his break just like you and me. I can live with that.

What I can’t, and won’t, is this pretence.

That he’s great.

That he’s fair, and just.

Fair, he? Just, he? Not to me, not to mine.

That’s mine there, who he is trying to break, again and again and again. Mine there, whose smile – oh, what a smile! – he’s trying to rape.

That’s mine he has killed. Mine he killed the year before, and last year, and, now, this year – twice.

He’s my creation, mine to kill.

And I will.

I must.