I think the brave person who tried to revise this, may have been trying too hard. I think that much of the original meaning of the story was lost in the process.
First of all, I think it was meant to be in the style of an old Victorian novel. With this in mind, flowery prose is actually a necessity. I think the author did very well at portraying this style, though there were still a few glaring grammar and punctuation mistakes. Also, the parts that were awkward were cleaned up a bit, my apologies to the author if the intent was misrepresented. I hope this makes things more clear to all who read it.
Goodbye, Merdael
Oh Merdael, I still stand over your grave every Christmas night. I still recall the times you held deeply to your pride, glutted yourself to no end, lusted insatiably, thrust your problems onto others, usurped businesses, felt insecure as the people around you were merry, and struck those who ignited your fuse. These memories will forever be in the past, but will forever cross my mind.
Have you forgotten me, the one you loathed so much?
Yes, I do remember the first day we met; the day that rain threatened to fall on the streets of Brooklyn. I was middle-class and you were an aristocrat, filled with so much pride. On that day you demanded, "Clean the mud from my shoes, it seems you are muddy enough!"
I looked at the mud on your feet, then up to you, smiling at the insecurity I saw in your eyes. You grew enraged with my insubordinate behavior, causing you to scream, "Filthy wench, get out of my sight!"
I chuckled and walked past your pompous form.
The second day, I watched you in the shadows of the café. Predictably, you pushed people out of your path and threatened them with your wealth and wrath. Sitting down, you demanded some shrimp scampi with spaghetti, but the café had none. You screamed at the manager, insulting him in his café. When you finished mocking the manager of the cafe, you spat in his face and proudly walked away.
On the third day, you walked by my humble abode. The first person you set eyes on was my daughter, who was merely sixteen winters old, but you cared not. You wanted to feel her untouched bosom. I stepped between you and her to protect her from your touch and asked you kindly to leave my property. However, being the prideful man you were, you refused to do so. I repeated myself a bit more harshly, but you pulled out a gun. You shot my house and windows and left my daughter and I in ruins. I frowned and embraced her as you walked away.
When the fourth day came I was in the park, reading my book. You were walking in the park, making your men fan you as you perspired . I listened intently as I heard one of your men complain, "Master, may I please take a break now? I have been fanning you for hours!" Of course, you would not fan yourself; you felt you were above it. My eyes widened as you took a knife and slit his throat and ended his life. You left his corpse, too proud to take responsibility. I frowned and closed my book, and walked away to look for help. What in the Heavens or Hells has led to this?
Four days have passed since you spat on the ground in the café. Opening a newspaper, I read that you bought the land upon which the café stood. Not only did you do this, you ordered the café to be torn down. This made me wonder if this was done to satisfy a grudge. I found you to be quite the megalomaniac, but I did nothing.
It had been days, but you still lusted for my daughter; you desired to take her virginity . < As a side note here, during the time period in which I suspect this is set, a "lover" was one who was paying court to you. You did not have sex with them, thus could be a virgin. The same thing goes for the term "making love". It did not mean sex, it meant wooing.> That day, my daughter came home in tears and told me of the pain that she could not bear. She told me that her lover had been killed; he had been shot in the head. She described the killer and the description fit you. While your actions strained my patience, I knew that I could not prove to the proper authorities that the murderer was you.
I came home from my daily routine one day to see the walls decorated in blood. Upon further observation, I found the corpse of my daughter, naked and covered in blood. What did she do to deserve such a fate? Alas, I did not know, but I did take note of the knife in her violated body; I recognized it to be the one you'd used to kill your servant. Tears flooded my eyes; my hate for you rose within me.
Weeks have passed since I buried my daughter. This night, you were with a trusted acquaintance. I watched from a distance as you walked down an alley with him. You both disappeared from my sight. It was less than two minutes before I heard a gun shot, which made me wonder where your shadowed life had led you that time. The man walked out of the alley and left the sheriff to investigate the events of that night.
Worry not, dear Merdael, I no longer feel wrath for you. You'd like that too much, wouldn't you? Instead, I walk to your grave every Christmas night to remind you of your tragic life. Are you suffering, Merdael? Oh, I know you are suffering! After all, you paid your dues, and you may be paying them still.
I part from you now and leave you at your rest. I think I gave you plenty of company tonight. Goodbye, Merdael.
