Disturbia

The bars rattled in an otherwise still night. The guard walked past, a sharp click marking each of his steps on the stone. A pink dawn snuck its way through the tiny hole in the wall. For months, this had been my only window to the world, and I looked down across the walls towards humanity as it bustled by, unknowingly forming a part of my last few memories.

A key rustled in the lock and my eyes met the guard’s. A stiff nod was all it took for me to realize that it was time.

I was to follow him to my death.

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I fell in step behind the man with the umbrella. Grey suit, polished shoes. Wealthy, I presumed, by the clinical cuts on his suit – made to fit while an admiring wife and daughter looked on. A family man with a small, happy family.

But tonight, he was going to die.

I turned a corner onto a side street. The clouds obscured light as the breeze turned into a howling cacophony, almost as if the heavens were preparing.

I moved a step forward, and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned.

The knife was an extension of me as I thrust it forward.

Plunge. Insert. Push. Twist. Withdraw.

A bright red flower bloomed on his spotless cream shirt, expanding as his blood found freedom from the shackles of his body. As I held him to me, I felt a soul flow by, a final breath expunged. A not so strange sense of déjà vu struck me, as if my whole life had been preparing for this one moment.

I withdrew the knife and extricated myself from the man in the grey suit, laying him on a moth eaten armchair on the street. The man with the umbrella had found his final resting place.

It looked like the climax of a movie, with the weather and the street and the costumes all perfectly set up in some sort of karmic colossus. I smiled to myself.

The wind howled one final time.

It was done.

——————————————–

As I followed the guard to my decidedly gruesome fate, my mind slipped back to that windy night. In retrospect, I could have done a better job. Getting caught was not part of the plan, but I had become careless. The trial had been brief; the jury had sentenced me to the chair. I had quietly chuckled at the irony of fate, two dead men in chairs. The wry smile had, of course, not gone down well with the press, quick to label me a remorseless murderer.

We arrived at a large metal door. Another key turned, and I was faced with the end. A void filled me, and I wondered if another smile would be out of place.

I sat down on the chair and closed my eyes.

“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”

Feel

I’m not very good at displaying emotion. That’s probably why I am a bad actor. I seem to have a standard expression for everything. That’s also why people think I’m a cold emotionless bastard. What I lack in emoting on my face, I seem to make up in words. You can read some of what I’ve written on this blog. It’s some deep shit, if I don’t say so myself. People find it weird that I can emote on so many levels. Heck, I find it weird myself.

So I realized that I don’t know how to deal with death. Do I cry? But boys don’t cry do they? What am I supposed to do? It didn’t compute. I went back to my fail safe. I bottled it all up. And I wrote. I cried while writing, but that’s allowed. Writers are supposed to feel. They’re supposed to be these romantic people right. Well, I am romantic. I just cant show it anywhere except when I’m writing. You should see the wall on my room. I have a lot of romantic poems up there.

Well coming back, I wrote, and I cried, and did both together for a while. Then I realized what would be much worse. A few years down the line, a bunch of us would meet, and we would see an empty chair in the group, and it’ll be like a void opened up. And it won’t be a good void, like the kind you have when you’re doped and all. It’ll be a deep dark abyss. And it’ll be cold. Very cold. I wonder what I’ll do then. Sure as hell wont be able to write. I mean it’ll be dark in the abyss won’t it?