As he walks away, time seems to slow down. The moment has arrived. The ring of inevitability sounds in the air and time slows down as fate descends upon him. In the movies crimson holes sprout exactly where you aim, but it never seems to be that way in reality. Perhaps it's the adrenaline, the nerves, whatever. When you come to the moment, you wonder if it's the correct moment. Is there someone close that can hear or that can see? If you wait will it make it better or make it worse? Will he know you're there and react? Will something random happen to foil the works? Are there good exits? Will you be discovered? These and a dozen more like it crowd your senses in doubts leading up to the act. They're like games your head plays with you. The more you do it, the more you realize you can get away, but also in the back of your head you know you're rolling the dice with chance. Eventually, someone will see you or hear you. But not now. Once the trigger has been pulled there is no room for that. A whole new set of thoughts crowd in a shreik and it's hard to hear yourself think.
They say the best thing to do is to get into the "zone", where you exist outside your thoughts. You just relax and realize that fate has dictated that you are its scythe. Yours is the icy hand of permanence. A mans life has a certain time line and all events have led to him being exactly where he is and when he is so that you can complete The Will.
As the the small creased hold emits a very small puff of smoke, I look at it a moment. It's a little to the right, so I fire another, and then another. I imagine each round as it rotates around it's central axis in the air. When it encounters fabric, it bends it for a moment, and the shirt beneath bends for a moment, and the skin beneath bends for a moment... For a fraction of a moment, the clothing and skin resist what will be... before the naked fragility of their existences are revealed and torn away. Through fat and nerves and muscle it carries on, and the memory of its passing stamps itself on the intruding object. Flesh is shoved aside with narry a word, passing through blood vessels and sinews alike; through organs and bone like some fiercely angry serpent of vengeance. As it passes through it carries on its back the memories of the existence around it: Memories of playing in the park on sunny days or lounging around and watching leaves fall to the ground, or a smile from that girl in sixth grade, or the first time you put on skates, or your first time having sex, and a million million other experiences. The weight of them burdens this fire-breathing beast. This hater of life has carried out its directive, it's reason for being. Spent, it sits resting inside a bone or lodge in a wall somewhere.
Stealing life from someone never started out easy. Now, it's much easier. Too many people have died for me to think I've done something wrong. If there were real scales, I wouldn't still be around to do it again. It is my purpose. It is just an action now. Everyone has a finite amount of time on this world. Some people die of cancer, others of heart attack, others of a bad flu in their old age. Some people die in a car wreck, or in their mothers womb, on in a motorcycle accident, or in an overdose. Everyone dies. This mans card turned up now. Today he was fated to wake up for the last time and brush his teeth for the last time and eat breakfast for the last time. Did he think he was going to die old? No doubt. Everybody does, even if they say differently. All those little moments and then now with no moments left. He should have been thankful he was fortunate to live this long. Think of the infants that are born in pain and die young. This man lived a bad life. He was overdue. Time to give someone else a chance.
They say the best thing to do is to get into the "zone", where you exist outside your thoughts. You just relax and realize that fate has dictated that you are its scythe. Yours is the icy hand of permanence. A mans life has a certain time line and all events have led to him being exactly where he is and when he is so that you can complete The Will.
As the the small creased hold emits a very small puff of smoke, I look at it a moment. It's a little to the right, so I fire another, and then another. I imagine each round as it rotates around it's central axis in the air. When it encounters fabric, it bends it for a moment, and the shirt beneath bends for a moment, and the skin beneath bends for a moment... For a fraction of a moment, the clothing and skin resist what will be... before the naked fragility of their existences are revealed and torn away. Through fat and nerves and muscle it carries on, and the memory of its passing stamps itself on the intruding object. Flesh is shoved aside with narry a word, passing through blood vessels and sinews alike; through organs and bone like some fiercely angry serpent of vengeance. As it passes through it carries on its back the memories of the existence around it: Memories of playing in the park on sunny days or lounging around and watching leaves fall to the ground, or a smile from that girl in sixth grade, or the first time you put on skates, or your first time having sex, and a million million other experiences. The weight of them burdens this fire-breathing beast. This hater of life has carried out its directive, it's reason for being. Spent, it sits resting inside a bone or lodge in a wall somewhere.
Stealing life from someone never started out easy. Now, it's much easier. Too many people have died for me to think I've done something wrong. If there were real scales, I wouldn't still be around to do it again. It is my purpose. It is just an action now. Everyone has a finite amount of time on this world. Some people die of cancer, others of heart attack, others of a bad flu in their old age. Some people die in a car wreck, or in their mothers womb, on in a motorcycle accident, or in an overdose. Everyone dies. This mans card turned up now. Today he was fated to wake up for the last time and brush his teeth for the last time and eat breakfast for the last time. Did he think he was going to die old? No doubt. Everybody does, even if they say differently. All those little moments and then now with no moments left. He should have been thankful he was fortunate to live this long. Think of the infants that are born in pain and die young. This man lived a bad life. He was overdue. Time to give someone else a chance.
Comments