This is a story I'm working on (a short story).
The beginning is as follows:
The Heroic Absolute
“For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” -Jesus Christ (Mark 8:36)
What? You think me strong? I am not strong, no, not at all. I could not stand against anyone but through word only. My physical strength has left me, vanished, ebbed away like water under a desert sun.
But I admit that what was done required a strong hand. I also admit that it was I that did it. A conundrum, true, but it is true nonetheless. All the doctors, and detectives can tell you that. Yes, at the time I was strong. But I am strong no longer.
I knew the victim. He was my friend, a close relative of mine, and we had gone into business together. No, I did not hate him. I loved him, as a brother, even though his kinship to me was distant. It was a strange thing, that I did not realize it at the time. He was my brother in spirit, but he was a monster.
Ah, yes, it seems that we have hit upon the motive, the great mover of events and times. Yes, it was my own observation of his monstrosity that gave me this strength, this titanic power over him. For you see, he was a true villain of the first class: calculating, shrewd, even malicious. Naught could stay my hand from him.
His crimes, I view, were innumerable: he held power over men like none other. He controlled them, like puppets upon a stage, for as long as he liked, and then tossed them away, destroyed shells of men utterly wasted and soulless. Even I was a puppet in his mad schemes, but no longer. He holds sway no more over me.
But you do not care for this rambling, this waste of good time. I will tell you then, firsthand what happened. Believe me, or not; I do not care...