It's my life. This was a phrase I once believed. Believe in yourself. This was a message long preached to the youth of my generation.  Follow your heart. The chant of a culture engrossed in themselves. If only they knew. If only I knew back then. Maybe we wouldn't be stuck in this mess. Maybe this world would never been created. This place. Some call it paradise. I call it hell. I often wonder how we ended up here. How did it all begin? How did we go so far from where we once were? 

There's a knock at the door. I reach for my handgun, anticipating his arrival. 12:03am. He's running late. I look through the peep-hole and spot him. The R, as he likes to be known. Claiming himself to be the only one in the known universe with the name beginning with the letter "R", he seeks to maintain his truth no matter the cost. That is his moral code and that is what he must live by. He has been successful thus far, until he met me. My name is Richard Henry. He’s gone insane because of it. Day after day, he comes to my door, his rusted and bloody sickle in hand.
"I know ya home Ichard!" he yells.

Clever isn't he? He refuses to believe that my name does, in fact, begin with an R. He knows my name, otherwise he wouldn't be hunting me. It’s actually quite sad. He obsesses over such a trivial thing as the first letter of his name. But he must maintain his truth. 

"Richard residents!" I reply. I can practically feel his face and mind clenching at the sound of my name. Yes, I relish in his inanity.

"Open the door!"

Without hesitation, I comply. Bright eyed, his tall, lanky figure is hunched over, sickle raised in the air. His attempt to lunch at me promptly ends in failure. The bullet pierces through his skull, his forehead tears open. Landing on the ground with a light thud, The R lies limp on my porch. Depositing him into my wheelbarrow, I dump him into the abandoned sewage drain that runs beneath the road. Considered a part of “rustic” living when it was made, it’s now serves as my personal disposal system. Dropping his sickle down with him, it lands point-down, puncturing his shoulder. I stand for a while watching his body float down with the sewage before heading back inside. 

He'll be back. He always is. There is one other truth he has chosen to maintain. He can never die. A truth most have chosen in this city.  An obsession with immortality has run rampant. Men and woman who have died ages ago live on in lifeless, ageless bodies. Some still are youthful, others… not so much. The R is an odd exception. I'm still learning his truths, I'm sure there are many more that have resulted in his current demeanor.

I, however, have a different truth. With it, I intend to leave, but not without causing some damage first.