I don't expect to survive this. I'm at the point where I'm measuring my life in hours.
I'm in an apartment building. I can no longer access the City. I can hear a sound above me-- knives scraping against the floor. It's the Rake.
I look out the window and I can see my former master-- Slender Man, might as well call him what he is-- standing out there, watching me. People pass by as if he's not even there, oblivious to him. One group of people moves oddly, their limbs loose, their movements strangely exaggerated. The Wooden Girl's dolls.
I look out another window and Judgment is there. I remember he said something about his sins burning him up soon, and I see now what he meant. I can't even recognize Sleight's body anymore; it's so decrepit looking, like he's aged 60 years in the span of a week.
I hear whispers, telling me to just give it all up, and a gray blur moves in the corner of my eye. I don't know why the Choir is after me, but there are a lot of things I don't know.
And I can feel the Ichor within me, spreading. I cut myself on a nail about an hour ago, and no blood came out. Only clear fluid. It won't be long now.
One way or another, I am going to die soon.
And you know what? I'm OK with that.
In the past few months, I went from just some random, insignificant college student to a supernaturally sponsored murderer. I've killed people without hesitation, and afterward I'd come up with justifications for it, and I'd try to ignore that feeling in the back of my head that what I'm doing is wrong. I'd try to block the inevitable nightmares from invading my sleep. I'd try and try, but to no avail.
Guilt is the punishment for our sins, and I feel little else these days.
But my sins end tonight. I have no intention of becoming a puppet. Not again.
So, all you monsters, all you horrific abominations? What are you waiting for?
I've got a machete on my right and a shotgun on my left. First prize goes to the one who brings me down.
My name is Joseph Amory Steward, and I'm ready for you.
So come and get me.