Echo

We were all puppets on strings to them, pull, pull, pull, and we would dance. They sit aloft in their mansions, dressed in all the fineries, laughing at those they controlled, like demons in the night. Their eyes used to haunt me, inhuman, cold, demonic, fractured. But over time I realized that my eyes were like theirs, one day I looked into the mirror and I saw madness.
Their actions broke the world in their lust for money and power. Their mistake was to think that such a mass of slaves would remain asleep. Humans are all capable of disastrous evil, every single soul could snap into a powerful murdering machine. Their mistake was getting the sheep to fight each other, the sheep became dogs which became hellhounds snapping at their gilded golden gates.
What about me, you might ask. I was no dog, snapping against my chains. I was more, or maybe I was less. I was the shadow, I had no name, I had no face, no voice, only an Echo. My echo was the ringing of a rifle as my fated bullet ripped away whatever life you thought you lived. While the dogs bit the hands of their masters I did what had to be done, I killed them. To be evil is to accept that level of reality, the reality that change doesn't come in verbal battles of morals and god. The rich don't fear god, nor do they really follow his example. No, they fear the echo, because in the end that's what they hear as they die. They never knew me, and they never will.