To reap what you sowed

I spent all my life in pursuit of something I once wanted.

What was it again…? Was it pride? Curiosity? Passion? Service? Purpose?

Whatever it may have been, I can’t see it now.

Ah, I’m just their good-for-nothing machine. Bodies in one end, husks out the other, then thrown away as if they were fly-ridden fruit. I watch them wither and dissolve before I can even tear my gaze away.

I’m a harbinger of passing, they say, a reaper, the one with the death-touch. And I suppose they’re right - at least now. I have become blind to any future but the one they gave to me.

And still I insist there’s more to it than just murder. Am I lying to myself? Why do I still bother?

My well has dried. Where it once drew up overflowing motivation, drive and passion there is a hollow pit, at the bottom of which lies a weeping child, resigned to her fate, with no way up. A bunch of frail poppy flowers in her hands looks at me pitifully, as if to say: you let us both wilt here. This is your fault.

But if this really is the future I made for her, then there’s no escaping it. It is my duty now, and I will shoulder it and everything that comes with it, till the day I too perish.