It happened just this summer.
My jealousy can strike hard and strike fast that if I contained it, I would die. I do not want to die. Not yet at least. But I had to let it out. And I did. That’s why two people ended up dead.
Of course I’m not going to tell anyone where they’re buried or who they are. That’s part of my “plan” or whatever it’s supposed to be.
And there’s no point in telling me that I am wrong. I already know that I am.
Plus there’s no point in justifying my rage. Yes, that’s what I call my jealousy: rage. In the universe known as my imagination, my jealousy has turned me into the son Hannibal Lecter would be proud of. The unspeakable and the unthinkable are all possible in my world—at least in the one where I am deathly and deadly jealous. And in this world, no other sin dares to speak its own name. If it did, I made sure it never talks again. Or at least I delude myself to that.
What sin never talks again, much less speak its own name? We love repeating ourselves, don’t we?
That’s why this great jealousy is something I am both in shock and in awe of. While it is terrible, it is also mine. It is mine by my creation, by divine right, and by possession. And to be possessed by it means to be enraged. And to be enraged means to destroy.
Beware and be aware of your jealousy, as I am of mine.