Were you ever asked that question?

You know, was it worth it?

Was all of the blood on your hands, skeletons in your closet, friends buried so deep no one will ever find them, worth it?

Did you ever even stop to think about it, through all of those years and everything you did?

Or did you just live in the moment as you worked (if it can be called that), never once stopping to think about what you'd done?

Or did you think about it, even through the blood and the mess and the awfulness, through digging graves and destroying evidence?

I'll tell you the truth, I've wondered about it. I've wanted to know if everything you ever did was worth the pain and effort and loss, if in the end everything was better than in the beginning. On the outside, no it wasn't, was it?

But the outside lies, doesn't it? The outside is a façade. The outside isn't worth shit if the inside is terrible. No one wants a house with a pretty outside but a ruined interior, walls broken and fucked up, the staircase collapsing under its own weight. But nobody really thinks like that, do they? They just see the outside, and not the inside. Because the outside is all we're really able to see of each other. It's kind of sad that most people don't realize it, isn't it?

I still want to know.

I want to know if it's really worth it. Was it worth it to you?

Because I want it to mean something for me, too. When everything's all said and done and I've done things worse than you ever fucking dreamed of, I want to look up at the stars with blood on my hands, my clothes, in my hair, and tell them yes, it was worth it.

So, was it worth it?