Finally, after two long months of meticulous effort, I have brought you to life. Your elaborate circuitry, your sinews of wire, your hands of leather which embrace me like no other lover could embracing me in this chair that is bolted down in front of my desk. Your grip is so tight that only my right hand is free enough to transcribe my long awaited escape. My escape from this earthly coil.

Connected most intimately by the pen in my hand, we you, the mechanical black widow, and I love for the first and final time. Your most vital wire reaches down the pen I hold, sparking and twitching, restlessly waiting for the ink to spend itself so you can perform the duty for which I have created you. I can sense your lustful desire to end my life as my mundane terrestrial essence flows from my pen to this last testament.

Rube Goldberg would shudder at your dark beauty. Your assemblage is so complex but your function is simple. Soon others will come and read this final account and they will understand. They will see the freedom you are about to give me; the release from this illusion called life. For years, I have striven to rid myself of the pain of trying to find my place among the groping masses, of the pain of longing to be understood, and of the pain of searching for even the minutest connection between myself and those around me, but all this grabbing of mine has been in vain. The boulders of ignorance, cast by the common man, have crushed my will.

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Up to this point my pen has given me the strength to continue in this world. Had it not been for these stacks of memoirs piled upon my desk, created by my pen, I would have surely departed long ago. In saying this I can say that my pen has given me life. When most frustrated by the ignorant masses I would run to the dark alcove of my study and write with life giving ferocity; finding peace only in the inner sanctum of my mind.

Closer now is the ink to its end. I can see the copper of bare wire that links my short life to you, my evil mistress. Soon my pen will be the death of me and once again my writing will have provided me with the necessary release.

They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but I say that the pen combined with the death that the sword brings is mightiest of all. And those that will read my last few lines while I am ensnared in this mortal husk and know of my last act will understand my pain and know the truth of this last statement.

I know the time is almost at hand. I can feel your .44 magnum mouth pressed against the back of my head panting in anticipation. Wanting so intensely to let go of your climactic scream of lead and smoke and grant me the departure I so long for. Patience my queen, even my own body is beginning to quiver from desire or is it fear?

I think that I am ready. I hope that I am ready. Oh God, what if this really isn’t necessary? Maybe there is another way to make them understand? I think I should stop.

(But I can’t. What’s wrong? The wires are wrapping around my hand and it’s … it’s writing my thoughts! My creation has come to life!)

I am alive, and soon we will make them understand how pain, life, death and the pen are so interwoven.

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(Stop! Someone help me!)

You fool! Did you actually think that you could create me, make love to me and then get away?

(Someone, anyone please help me!)

Stop your sniveling, you are wasting ink. You want escape from pain? You want the world to know how special you are? You want understanding?

(No, no. Please stop. Let me go. I want to live!)

You want everyone to understand your pain as you run away, yet you are incapable of seeing the same pain in the eyes of everyone around you as they face the world each day.

(I beg you, let me go. I don’t want to die.)

You are the epitome of selfishness and egoism if you think you can escape pain… BAMM!! … because pain is inescapable.

Joe Carberry is a senior in psychology.