Some people are addicted to drugs.
Some people make their living off of people getting addicted to drugs.
I was one of those people that were addicted to a drug called love ever since I turned eighteen. I’ve been searching for my one true love ever since I met Ronnie, that man I met back when I lived in the Slums.
I found myself embroiled in a life of hedonism looking for that special someone. However, that only earned me the image of a two credit harlot only good for spreading her legs for anyone who said those three magic words. Including my husband, who just married me to elevate his status.
Even when I realized this and killed those pricks that used me, I still found myself longing for my one and only. I ended up placing many people on a pedestal, thinking that they’d be the one to give me what I was missing.
Thing is, I was able to overcome my addiction to love. Granted, it took several “counseling” sessions with the guards of Deathrow, but I managed to stop lusting after men and took back control over my life.
The same can’t be said for Roderick’s addiction to getting others addicted. For the past thirty years, he took his drug empire to heights that most people only dream about. Throughout that time, he lived lavishly off the credits he earned after selling addictive medicines to poor fucks that only wanted to cure their illnesses.
Even after his children were killed and he took the fall, he’s still addicted to earning credits and getting Arcadia hooked on his product. Aside from him rambling about seeing ghosts, I don’t think their deaths affected him all that much.
It’s only now that he’s down here that he feels any sort of shame for what he’s done. Not for getting people hooked on drugs, mind you, but for getting his children killed after making a deal with some woman.
I heard he views himself as a victim. Like he’s just an addict that needs rehabbed instead of being the creator of a deadly drug that killed hundreds of people.
There’s another difference between you and me, Roderick. I was actually a victim of my addiction. In my mind, I didn’t do anything wrong. I just punished those who exploited me.
In the end, I paid the ultimate price for my addiction.
You, on the other hand, aren’t a victim. You’re only addicted to the suffering of others, which makes you a filthy murderer that only gets his rocks off when people die.
Unfortunately for you, you’re about to become one. Thanks to those guards, I discovered that my addiction isn’t falling in love. It’s making men like you pay for being such disgusting pieces of shit.
And you’re the first scumbag to line up and smell the roses.
Go ahead, pluck me like you plucked your children.
You’ll find out every rose has its thorns then.
Love,
Miss Murder