Torment.

Standing face to face with my own mortality.

Marionette pushing the silver laced nuzzle into my eye.

Sweat is beading down his brow.

Gasping for breath. He wants to pull the trigger. He needs to pull it.

But he can't.

I find myself laughing as tears flow from his eyes.

Finding an arousing pleasure from what it is he wants to do, I grip my pale fingers around the long slender barrel and raise a serrated smirk before shoving the barrel into my mouth.

I play with my toy.

I grant him just enough freedom to just barely begin to apply pressure upon that hairline trigger.

But stop.

The pain in his face.

My god I've never seen a man struggle so hard.

And fail so miserably.

My glowing eyes watch him intensely, a macabre joy prancing about my shriveled heart like a sociopath on a playground during recess.

And seconds turn to minutes, minutes to hours...

At last he collapses.

I let him fall.

Into my arms.

Back into my mind.

His final gasping breath echoed a raspy, "Why?"

My reply?

"Because I can."

Hear this Mannequin.

I'm done playing with myself. The time for games is passed.

It's time we meet face to face.

One.

LAst.

TImE.