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Tell me about the good place.
It's for his sake that I ask this. Ben always loved telling stories. I want him to be happy when he dies. I want him to forget that his sister is about to kill him, or at least have a chance to remember other things.
He tells me it's the place where no-one gets punished (I nod and hold back tears); and no one gets yelled at, I agree. His voice trembles; mine doesn't. The trace of a smile he shows me like a gift is hopeful, pleading. I can't bear to look at him, and hate myself for looking away. And nobody disappears, he adds: the imagined rewards of our childish mythology. And when you wake up in the morning, you can stay in bed as long as you--
When I feel his neck snap under my hands I finally look down and let go of the lie, setting his head gently on the forest floor. It wasn't for him. It was never just for him. It was for me: so I could remember him as storyteller, not murderer. So I could think of Ben captivating an audience of transgenic children with his wild creativity, not Ben hunting people down and ripping their teeth from their skulls as a sacrifice for the Blue Lady. So I could hear his voice spinning old, familiar tales instead of pleading for death as an escape from the hell he invented.
So I could believe, even though we made it up, even though he was a twisted monster, that the good place he describes so lovingly is where I just sent him.
I cry for him more than I did for any of his victims.