He drug himself along the corridor like a sloppily slaughtered livestock- shot through the eyes. His own blood eased the friction between the hardwood floor and his limp-beaten legs. What should have been a humane death was drawn out into a torturous demise.
I stepped over him to put him out of his misery. His eyes met mine with a look of surrender to the impossible, forcefully abdicated to his own mortality. My eye died like it so often did in times like these, losing it's life along the eight-and-a-half inches of chrome between animation and death. I felt his life in my hands: his birth, his upbringing, and, most imporantly, his future, short though it may be.
Time travel has yet to be discovered, but manipulation of temporal lineation has been a hallmark of human society for millenia.
The guttural rattle emanating from the depths of his throat was a sure sign of looming finality. I was allowing him time for any last penance. God knows most of us don't remember his name. He was bleeding from his eyes, crying satan from his inner soul.
Silencer speak softly. I pulled the trigger slowly, my pointer finger melting into it's metallic home. Only the recoil of the hammer and the light at the end of the barrel broke the hypnotic hold of darkness. He finally fell to the floor, baptising himself in his own brains and blood.
He was the only friend I had.
It was just business.
Every-body's gotta eat.
No comments:
Post a Comment