The dead have been crushed, ground up by their life into a fine white powder. It covers my hands accusingly, as if they were blaming me for the slaughter, as if to say that their blood was on my hands.
Their blood.
I may never understand my fascination with this vital subtance, this fluid of the heart, born from the marrow of bones. But my ignorance of my condition doesn't bother me anymore. It's all academic anyway. What effect will it have upon the world or my psyche to be able to formulate the cause into words and concepts that can be classified and expounded upon by psychology students. Even if the words were there, the understanding wouldn't be. The zen that can be communicated is not the true zen.
And that's why they had to die. At the risk of sounding like a Bulwer-Lytton content entry, this is the story of why communication is evil, and why the letters had to die.
And the reason is simple, so obvious that no one will grasp the deep significance of the motivation and what it means to all of humanity.
I killed the letters because my teacher asked me to. Because the leader of this ad-hoc tribe of students requested that the letters be sacrificed to the Gods of Academia.
The ritual was just as simple. He held the weapon out to me and said, “Could you erase the chalk board while I grade these papers?”
[Final grade in Creative Writing 101: C-]