I set my supplies on the table: the poison, the wine, and the empty glass. For too long has my country been subjected to the will of an evil and tyrannical king. His endless decrees have seen the poor torn from their homes, children torn from their mothers, fathers and brothers sent off to war to die and for what: an endlessly swelling royal treasure horde. The terrible King Dante sits atop a mountain of gold like a dragon, drunk on his own wretched power. Soon enough, he will be drunk on more than just power, more than just wine.
I pour the wine in first. Its deep crimson is a reminder of all the innocent blood spilled by his regime: the same dark hue as the blood caked on the guillotine responsible for countless political executions. Vengeful souls laugh gleefully in the sound of rushing liquid as it fills the glass. Next, I add the poison. I need no more than a drop of the sickly green liquid, corrosive to the skin and lungs when pure, but when diluted in wine is absolutely undetectable. A quiet hiss rises from the mixture as it bubbles and settles, as if the drink itself is now laughing at the king's impending demise.
I enter the king's bedchamber and set the tray of fruit and wine in front of him. He looks up at me briefly, his red, drunken face grimacing at sharing space with a lowly servant. Without a word he waves me from the room, and I am happy to oblige. He mutters something about executing me for forcing him to wait so long for his evening snack as I close the door and peer through the keyhole. Surely enough, before long, the tyrant begins swaying in his seat. As he sputters and falls over, his eyes glance toward the keyhole as if he sees me staring back at him. I am ashamed to admit that I have enjoyed nothing more in life than watching his eyes turn cold, and my only regret is that I could not give him the more humiliating, undignified end he has served to so many.
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