Silent Graves

To whom it may concern:

I have been caught in my own web. While I could untangle myself by destroying all I have built over many years of hard work, there is no point in doing so. I cannot force myself to go on, not after this. I always thought it odd that in movies and books, parents took their own lives after losing a child. Now, as my own son lays dying next to me, I finally understand why they didn't just start over.

I suppose I should begin with an explanation. As I write this, my wife and son are dying. I've kept them in the dark, and they are calmly drifting away as a result. Call me a liar posthumously, I deserve much worse, but I didn't want their last moments to be plagued by fear and panic. Given the choice, I'd like their last moments to be without worry, and for their final opinion of me to be as somepony who had their best interests in mind, despite the fact that it was my mistake that cost them their lives. This last part I really do need to stress: this was a mistake; an accident; an unintended consequence. If intent matters at all, I want to make it very clear that I never wanted to see them die.

This was not the first accident I've caused. Long, long ago, I caused the deaths of two colts and a stallion in the woods just south of the city. I didn't intend to do so. A wild mushroom fell into their food, and somehow, nopony managed to catch it. They ate it without anypony realizing how dangerous it was, and by the time I found out what had happened, it was far too late to do anything about it.

Years passed. Slowly, the event faded from my mind, and I moved on with my life. I started dating this beautiful mare. I wanted to find an outlet that didn't harm anypony. Unfortunately, after she took all my money, she told me I wasn't good enough for her, and she was dumping me, effective immediately. I was understandably angry, especially when I saw her kissing another stallion less than an hour later. I found out where they were going to dinner, and snuck into the kitchen. As much as I wanted to, I didn't kill her. What went through my head is that I wanted her to suffer. I poisoned her new stallion and ensured that she'd wake up next to a dead body. I wanted her to hurt as bad as she hurt me. I didn't want her to have the satisfaction of an easy death in her sleep.

That left a bad taste in my mouth. I couldn't believe how horrible I felt after that one. I'd killed an innocent stallion, one who owed me nothing, and whom I'd never met or had a conversation with. He didn't deserve to die, and that was, until today, my greatest regret. If I could do it all over again, I probably wouldn't have killed anypony, but if I did, he'd have been the target I'd pull away from. Perhaps that would have stayed my hand in the future.

The next pony I killed was the restaurant critic. He was a pompous arse who decided that if he didn't like a restaurant, it would go out of business. More than a dozen times, he'd cost me my job. The fourteenth time he walked into a place where I worked, I knew I had to protect my income. I was sleeping on a park bench; I couldn't lose another job because the business collapsed at his hooves. I felt that he had a personal vendetta against me.

I heard him say how much he loved pierogi. I convinced the chef to add a special mushroom into that particular order on his request. It wasn't difficult to do. I didn't even feel that bad this time. He'd nearly destroyed me several times over, and he almost did so again. I'd finally lashed out at him, and he died that night. "Death makes fools of us all," I'd told him. Now I am the one who has been made a fool.

It seemed that I'd struck too high up that time, as his death drew in quite a lot of attention from the media. He was in the papers, on the radio, and the guards were swarming around town. I knew I'd be caught soon, so I picked the pony who'd come up with the most outlandish story, and tried to make it look like that was what I was doing, even going so far as to say that her theory was too close to the truth, despite it being the furthest from the truth. You can't inject mushrooms with a syringe. I waited for her and her fiancé to fall asleep, but he left, instead. Then I broke in, tranquilized her with some stuff I'd stolen from the zoo, then made her mouth chew up the mushrooms. She reflexively swallowed them, and I drew a small amount of her blood to write the message. It had the desired effect: The guards began looking the wrong way. When I heard that the fiancé was under suspicion, I stepped forward to say that I saw him leave before her time of death. I had to kill an innocent mare; I didn't want to be responsible for the stallion, too.

I met the mare who would be my wife the next day. We hit it off immediately, and a year later, we had our son, and then we were married. She saved me from homelessness by giving me a stable job growing and selling produce as an employee of her father. I owe my life to her. I was finally happy, and there was little chance of me ever having to kill anypony else.

Then, on my son's third birthday, that poor filly was killed by the drug dealers. This started a rash of other killings made to look like they were mine. I couldn't let them go on. I was finally at peace with my violent past. I had a stable job and a family. I couldn't let them take that from me. I called on a private investigator to find out who the perpetrators were, and to gather them all in one place, if he could. I snuck in some contraband and had an accomplice distribute the poisonous mushrooms to the correct inmates. I also had him write the messages for me. I know he won't talk, and to protect him, I'll keep his name out of this confession. He performed admirably, and I gave him exactly what he wanted in exchange. For all intents and purposes, I am the one who killed them. I also distilled the poison and added it into the scotch I gave to the investigator who had tracked them all down. I couldn't afford to have him blabbing.

I swore off of killing for a long time after that. A year passed with nothing happening. Then, this afternoon, my wife found the mushrooms I had collected for disposal, and mistook them for a similar-looking mushroom, the wine cap. She put the silent death mushroom into her stir-fry and fed it to our son. This could have been avoided if I'd just not forgotten to throw them away on the way home.

Before I started writing this confession, I ate some of them myself. By the time you read this, all three of us will be dead, and in all likelihood, cold and stiff. If, by some insane stroke of luck, my wife or son survive, take good care of them. If I'm still alive, I deserve whatever fate befalls me. I took the coward's way out. My family is innocent. Spare them, if you can.

I would have our bodies cremated. My wife and son are to be placed in her family's mausoleum. I deserve no such honour, but I would like to be scattered surrounding them, acting as their protector to the best of my capabilities in death.

Fly Agaricus, AKA Red Cap