Now, my little children, let me tell you a story; a fascinating glimpse into that which was, as opposed to what will be.
The date was, oh, sometime in November of twenty-ten; don't ask me the exact day, but remember the month. Over a year ago now; the British islands were trapped within the icy grasp of almost-winter, preparing for snowstorms that would descend upon them in the next few months, as had happened the previous year. In November, there was only frost on the cars of the people, every morning.
In the darkness of the evening, a young man scurried throughout the alleyways of London. What part escapes my recollection, but this young man was going home; he'd come back from his first day on the job, see, and he was going home to his new flatmate. He'd moved; from the north of England to it's south, running from something.
But the hunter does not allowed the hunted to escape easily; that is true for the two hunts ongoing on that fine evening. I was both hunter and hunted; hunted by the Game, hunting the game. The Game had two targets in it's sight on that night; I, myself, had only one. I had not yet learned that I could fight the blight, so I ran. My cowardice is lamentable; if only I'd pressed the chance sooner, I could have caused the suffering to cease all the more earlier. The innocent human beings on this planet would have not needed to suffer.
You subhuman trash, of course, deserve exactly what's coming to you.
With the Game figuratively breathing down my neck, I increased my pace; I turned through alleyways to escape, hoping to not be drawn into a twisted city-scape that the Slender Man so-often conjures up to ensnare his prey.
My luck held out in two fashions; I was not caught in one of the Game's infernal torture-engines, and by pure coincidence, stumbled upon my target. Upon seeing me turn to face him, his eyes opened wide, as if he'd soon a ghost. My face broke open into a grin, and I raced forward to meet him again.
"Dear, dear!" I laughed. "You can't run forever, you know? Time's up for you, you know. Hahaha..." I gabbled the words to bolster my own confidence; my knife had come from my belt and was born at his face. And yet he gave no reaction, and only stared at me.
My hairs stood on their ends as I felt the cold, icy wind. He must be there; there was no other alternative. Despite his protests (which have long since been lost to my fickle memory), I grabbed his hair and forced him to look upon that faceless visage.
"You can't hide from it! He's there; he's always been there! You can't hide from the truth," I gloated, happy to see that he couldn't hide from it now. He was going to see the truth.
But when I relaxed the tensions on his head (to look upon the Game myself, of course - the familiar lack of features was there and, even in my state of cowardice, I felt I could face it), he simply turned to me. "Who's there?"
Taunting me. How could that smug bastard taunt me? I must admit, my temper flew off the handle. The knife sliced him into pieces; slit, slit, slit. So many pretty red ribbons; his screams of protest muffled by my hand, his attempts to bite thwarted by rapid blinding. It was almost like painting a work of art; my hands were covered in the paint which I had used to create my masterpiece, and my brush blunted and worthless. A shame, really; it had been a faithful companion to me in the early years.
But it was a tool, just as the canvas upon which my artwork had been painted was. A tool which had outlived it's usefulness, and it was thus discarded.
And that was the end of the Lexiconical. Just like that.