I had killed a man, how was I ever going to explain that?

Now apologizes and regrets wouldn't do, it was true, this whole time. I had always thought that once you were dead, you were done, puff, c'est fini. But after all those years of considering heaven and hell nothing but a pitiful way to control people I have to be here, to sit among others who await for their final judgment. I have to be here in the land of damned souls, just wandering and wondering for what was ahead. But I had killed a man, so there was not much uncertainty for me.

In life I would have had so many questions about this all, questions of the origin of this silly judgment, questions about the beyond, questions about things no one could or would explain. Now it's clear, crystal clear. And no, I don't have the answers, nor will I ever, but it's clear because it doesn't matter. None of those questions matter here, what good could they do now? It even is kind of funny to consider that I spend my whole life looking for meaning and now that it's here it doesn't really matter, because it has ended.

I had killed a man and there was no way out of it, there was no pledge of insanity or psychosis, because while some may have objected I have never been a sane person, I planned it. I plan Robert Snider’s dead from the beginning, every part of it was just a well plotted plan were in the start he would have all these dreams, fantasies, energy and happiness, and in the end he wouldn't. I didn't just killed a man, I killed all his baggage. I killed his memories, I killed his dreams, I killed his fears and nightmares, his deepest secrets. All of it, like a cold blooded murderer.

The reason or the method I used to end with his life had no importance now, it didn't matter he deserved to be killed, it didn't matter I threw him from the twentieth floor of a building. It didn't even matter I stabbed him before just to be sure, I had killed him and that was it, I was going to hell, or Tijuana, or however you want to call it. And to be honest, it wasn't truly mortifying, I was going to pay for what I have done, but it was worthy.

Robert Snider was a middle-aged man who was fighting against the world always, when he was not suing a multinational corporation, he was protesting in the streets. He might have given to everyone the impression he was an activist, an idealist who thought he could change the world, they were wrong, all of them. He was in fact always talking about changing things, about the power of one, he even made a huge statement in national television. It's worth mentioning he was an artist, and he sometimes exteriorized his art into the streets, which in other words is saying he was a petty vandal painting in particular property, in huge scales. He once made a pig showering in mud--mud made by dollar bills-- in the entrance of a McDo**ald's building, which appeared on the news, as well as many other of his "caused" crimes.

But Robert Snider was different, he was not an idealist by option, he was not an idealist because he thought in the power of one, he was not an idealist because of any reason, he just was. Because since he was a young boy who could draw beautiful paintings he was told to go to art school, because once he was there he was told to join the group of gifted and talented kids, because then this cool kids told him he should expect something better from the world, but he never did, he didn't ever expected anything. His whole life was based on other's decisions, on other's expectations of what a modern artist should be, he had lost the entire meaning of art. But none of it was of importance, because now he was dead, and so was I.

I said before the reason I killed him was not important, it still isn't but maybe it should be said. Despite the fact that people who aren't authentic should not be approved, that gave me no right to kill him, in fact nothing ever would give me right to kill anyone, but it did gave me reason, I mean. It was because of that same thing that I did, he always made what he was told, yet he had his own ideas. He was a frustrated classic artist who was unsatisfied by all the crap surrounding him. He never thought painting a pig in a door would actually make a corporation stop being a monopoly, he knew that marching against a tennis shoes company wouldn't stop them from using children from Asia to manufacture those shoes. He didn't thought the world would change just because he said so. He was unhappy. Yet he had to raise a flag and protest, because that was what he was told to.

Killing an unhappy person is wrong, but only because it is a person. I did what I did because his existence was meaningless, he was always searching for something beyond, but only where he was told to. He was a prisoner of his own self, the outer shell was poisoning the tender inside, where he was just a peaceful classic painter, who had a lake house with ducks. But he never followed his gut; he thought it was right to continue the activism, that's what all the other modern artists were doing, no ducks included.

So that is the reason I had to kill him, he was not living anyways. He was dead inside and so I had to end him completely. I had murdered a man and now I was going to hell, no regrets or forgiveness.

Maybe some people wouldn't understand why I killed him, maybe not even I will understand why I put an end to his life and now I was paying the consequences. Maybe it had no reason to be, maybe it had been a mistake. Maybe he was going to live a life of regrets and finally die with them, or maybe he would realize in time and change his life. But death is a bad time for maybes or perhaps, it's just about being dead. And now we were both dead, but at least I don't regret a thing.

"Robert Snider, come forward" I heard a voice saying from everywhere. It was dark, I was a little scared, but I stepped forward to meet my destiny