What is death? The teachers described it thus: dramatic, unexpected, shrouded. A character's death was artistic, and by and large the play's climax. A heartracing, fascinating thing. The audience hoped for it so—sensuously, madly, excitedly, rapturously... They were drunk, doped on the stories that lead up to those deaths. Art, all for art. So he was taught; so he held. As he witnessed with his own eyes his teachers demonstrate to him such artistic deaths, one after another, so too did he experience the emotions behind those deaths. He was a child of art. He knew himself, believed himself, and considered himself born unto the stage. And yet. Yet— The moment he truly took the stage as the star, the moment he ushered in the very first production he owned, the moment he could truly exhibit the technique cut into every bone of his body, the moment the sharpened edge would play with grace across the artery— He came to realize with open eyes his own opinion—death was simply death, no more. It held no artistry. It bore no hope. Its only meaning was the passing of a life. In that moment, everything changed. The art once held aloft was lofty no longer. The hopes once shouldered became barbs upon his back. His teachers were no teachers now, but murderers. Ah, indeed. Mere murderers. And he, a mere murderer too. The performers upon the stage, the spectators off it, all simply murderers. But in every story, murderers should receive their just desert in the end. The familiar weight upon his shoulders stops his racing mind. It is the black cat. He tilts his head, and she stares right back. Ever since they met, she has frequented his side. At times, even he knows not how the black cat manages to slip close to him. To him, tonight is a night of utmost importance. And so, he asks the question. 'Would you walk with me?' The black cat licks at her paws, yawns, and seems to entirely lack interest in the question. 'How would the name... Christine strike you?' 'Meow.' The black cat—no—Miss Christine now seems much more enthused. With a few short hops she descends from the windowsill, and turns back to glance at him. Oddly, the notion strikes him that Miss Christine is concerned for him. 'Don't worry.' Yes. Do not worry. His decision has been ever resolute. The curtain slowly opens, the spotlights hang above center stage, the seats below are packed, and all await the play with high hopes. To center stage, he paces. For murderers, a trial at times comes from a place of righteous anger, and at others from introspective guilt, but all are equal in their exit from the stage. He clears his throat. Tonight, death will come equal.