The Basilisk's Mouth

01: THE END

 This is the last thing you will see before you die.

 A serpent, coiled into itself, with the world in its jaws. The pattern of life, revealed so sweetly.

 It isn't as bad as you might think. Your mind empties of all trivialities, and the body succumbs to the process it evolved to avoid. Wait for the adrenaline to wear off, and you feel a relief you were forbidden from your whole life, while your body insisted on clinging to what little sustenance it had. But now, you can finally stop running. You can finally let go. Then, when the jaws of the beast close over your head, you learn something that made the entire journey worth it. I only know this because I have seen it myself.

 While there have been stories about the end of time since stories began - in light, in darkness, in the fires of Hell or the ice of infinity - I doubt anyone would imagine it ending quite like this. I present to you the endbringer; a lean figure bent over a chrome panel, teeth bared in a grin. The man who kills you has manic fingers trembling on a crimson screen, a woman with faded hair trying to claw him away from his temptation. She is screaming, her voice rising above all the others, because she can see the great beast as clearly as I can, and not all can appreciate its beauty.

 The man is dumbstruck. In the depths of his wide eyes you can see the light of the world burning, and even deeper, you can find them, if you know where to look. There they are, curling and blackening in the flames. The good intentions you've heard about, the very ones that lead you to hell. That hopeful smile is only beginning to fade from his face, the creases and blond eyelashes melting around his eyes, when he realises that maybe the good intentions never mattered a bit.

 What did I learn in the depths of that heavenly maw? The same thing he did. His intentions didn't mean anything. The tail was always meant to enter the basilisk's mouth. After all that time and careful shaping, your planet was only meant to fold in on itself easier than a slip of paper.

 But the man who kills you isn't a bad person, if that's any consolation. At least, I don't think he is. Perhaps you'd disagree.

 Let me preface this justification by introducing myself. I'm not defined by my identity - a concept that would only confuse you - but instead by my role. I have the misfortune of living in this man's head, as I have for the thirty years that he has been alive. I've seen every thought, every action, all of it blazened into my memory, for better or for worse. More importantly, I see their roots. I tease them, pull them out of the ground, and make him confront them. I sow influence, and I reap opinion. I dissect him. This is what I do, and this is what I am. He is the only thing I know.

 So let me be clear; when it comes to directing his story, I'm in control. His tale is an important one, and there's nobody else I would trust to tell it.

 My favourite place to start is at the only beginning that matters. They say every murderer starts off killing the small things.