Death comes to all men, in the end. When it comes, most people cry out in fear, in outrage, in stubbornness.

They plead. "Please sir, don't kill me!"

"I'm too young to die!"

"I'm not ready yet!"

"Why me?"

And, my personal favorite,

"It's not fair!"

After such a long time of taking the lives of others, I feel that death is no longer really a big deal.

I am not afraid. If I were, it would be an insult to every brave man I ever killed.

I am not outraged. If I was, how could I face those men that looked me in the eye and forgave me while I stole their life?

I am not stubborn. Of this, I am most certain. Being determined to stay alive is simply not in my character. To have the urge to live, you must first care about your own life. At this point, I always fail to proceed. When you see lives as little more than light, expendable things, your own tends to get mixed up in the jumble of others.

Emotion. I know the word. I can taste it in my mouth, I can see it in their eyes, I can hear it in a mans anger, in a woman's grief, in a child's fear, and at times I believe I can even smell it in a crowd roused to anger. But I cannot feel it.

Death comes to all men, in the end. When it comes, most people cry out in fear, in outrage, in stubbornness. When my time is come, I hope they do one thing.

Kill me slowly.