“The last words he pronounced were- ‘The horror! The horror!’,” I said, avoiding her gaze as best as I could. I could feel her grief and displeasure radiating from her body, as the heat does from the pavement during a hot summer day. I felt hatred for myself in having told her something that very obviously caused her pain, but more than anything I hated Kurtz even more. Not even dead did he stop being the puppeteer, pulling the strings to my life and controlling my each and every action, leading me where he pleased, all for his amusement, and perhaps in a way to prove his authority and power over others.
“What? Are you sure?” she asked quietly, as if saying it any louder would make the possibility of me taking back my words even more minute. Her eyes were brimming with unshed tears, like two glasses of water that with the smallest nudge would spill their content. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would feel like to know that the man you loved didn’t even remember your name on his deathbed, to know that the last moment that you could have crossed his mind, you who loved him more than anything in the world, he instead thought of anything but. For a fraction of a second I considered lying to her, telling her that I could be mistaken, that I’d had to rush out to keep my emotions in check, and that perhaps after I’d left his side he uttered her name. But I couldn’t do it. Or maybe, if I’m being completely honest, I didn’t do it out of selfishness. My hatred for Kurtz overpowered my humanity, my ability to empathize and comfort, and in a last attempt to exert control in my own life, I let the woman suffer. I hoped that wherever Kurtz’s soul was at that moment, it was suffering and agonizing, like the natives did when he ordered them to be killed and tortured.
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