A wicked man

The candle burned low in the cramped room, casting long shadows over the peeling wallpaper. Vanya sat hunched at the table, his fingers trembling over a half-written parchment. His stomach ached - not from hunger, though he had not eaten - but from the weight of a thought he dared not speak aloud.

"Am I wicked... Or merely sick?"

The words had formed slowly over the years, dripped like poison into his mind. He had tried, hadn't he? He had prayed, given alms, wept beside graves he had made. Promised never to do it again.

Yet wickedness clung to him like a second skin. A lie here, a betrayal there, the sudden flash of involuntary delight when he saw another in pain. The uninvited rush of pleasure when another life slipped through his hands.

He pressed the pen to the page, but instead of ink, only silence bled forth. No words left to apologise with anymore.

Outside, the city groaned with life. A drunkard sang in the alley; a child cried for its mother. Somewhere, a church bell tolled.

Vanya swallowed hard and, with a final, steady breath, placed the parchment beside the noose he had tied earlier that evening.

He touched it gently, almost reverently.

Tomorrow, he would repent.

Tonight, he would sin.