Musings of the Mad - Volume 2

Regrets? Do I have regrets, you ask? A fine question, that, and one which I can honestly answer… yes. Yes, I have regrets. I think everyone has them. The washed-out whore with the caked-on makeup and the needle in her arm, dreaming blissfully of childhood joys as she drools onto the cracked tile floor. The high school football coach who tries to relive his glory days by driving his team and screwing the cheerleaders. The upstanding businessman whose suit cost more than his monthly mortgage payment, who goes to work faithfully every day to support his family, but dies a little bit more every day as he seethes in his office, knowing he is not meant to be where he is but powerless to move. Even the priest, that most unexpected of the regretful, even the most pious of God’s chosen ambassadors have their moments, times when they wonder what might have been had they not dedicated their lives to such a nebulous cause.

My regrets are legion, I am afraid, and I savor them all. To regret is to have learned, I believe. To regret something we must know (or at least admit) more than we did before the act took place. In that sense regret is a sign of growth. Of course, there are those who find themselves repeatedly regretting the same things, seemingly doomed to repeat them over and over, knowing even before they commit the act that the regret will come, but unable or unwilling to stop regardless. To live in an unending cycle of regret is surely one of the punishments Dante never witnessed. Am I one of these unfortunate souls? Perhaps, but pity me not. Each and every act I have committed that I have come to regret I have committed by deliberate act of will. It is regret that I have asked for and earned.

I fear that my time for regret is nearing its end. As the blood around me cools and thickens, making my fingers stick to one another and to the instruments of my doom, I can hear the wail of the sirens approaching. Oh, there will be some time. The doors are locked and they cannot know that I am the only living soul here, so they will talk. They will talk and talk, fearing to cause that which I have already committed. I could keep them talking for days, I think, should I desire. But I am tired. So very tired. No, I will talk with them briefly, simply to communicate with another mind one last time, and then I will end it. I will stop talking. Then all I need do is wait. Their fear will eventually force them to action, and they will fire their burning gas and kick in the doors and invade my home, screaming all the while, but I will be beyond them by then. I will be wherever we all must go when this brief spark we know as life is ended. Will I regret it? Doubtful.