Sound
Sound.
There was nothing more beautiful than sound. Wonderful sound.
There were some composers, musicians, and rock stars that would probably agree with him. Sound, they would say, is truly wonderful.
But he's not thinking about music.
He's thinking about the sound of footsteps on a gravel drive. The crickling, crackling, crunching sound that felt like melodies playing out in the simplicity of life and the suddenness of a human's demise. He's thinking about the sound of a door lightly shutting, the click of the lock, and the sudden disappearance of outside noise. He's thinking about the sound of fingers typing on a laptop computer, with nails that are just a little too long, and the whirring of the fan cooling down the machine.
He's thinking about the sound of the blade coming from his belt.
Shhhkkt.
"Shhhkkt."
"Hello?"
She stood up, her clothes swishing against the smooth leather, the sound of a laptop lid being closed and the soft breathing of a frightened woman.
Her husband was a vigilante, a superhero.
He tapped on the door to her bedroom.
Taptap.
"Taptap."
He loved sound, but when he discovered the gorgeous sound of violence, he was lost forever. He was addicted to it.
After a while, he had started to mimic the sound. And when mimicking the sound no longer satisfied him, he started to create it. The sound of violence.
"Is anyone there? Jeff?"
Her fingers were scraping the floor beneath the bed. Wood upon wood reached his ears as she slowly pulled the bat from underneath her bed. She knew it wasn't her husband, Jeff. He knew that Jeff was almost dead. He hadn't been able to completely get rid of him, but he knew the threat of bodily harm to the woman would bring him there. Into his trap.
He opened the door.
Creak.
"Creak."
He slammed his fist into her skull, dodging the bat and causing her to drop it.
Crash.
"Crash."
She fought back, but the more she did, the more noise she made and the more he liked it. Vigilantes stole these beautiful melodies to themselves. He would take them back. They would be his and his alone. The lovely sounds.
Splurrch.
"Splurrch."
His knife had gone deep into her stomach. The blood dripped to the floor.
Splash.
"Splash."
The door burst open just then, and the vigilante's harsh breathing delighted him. Perhaps he'd try this again. The sound of their grief and pain was almost as beautiful as this next sound.
"Blam."
BLAM.
Onomatopoeia listened gently as the body hit the floor and the gasping died out and the breathing slowly stopped. He smiled beneath his mask, and left the room. Onomatopoeia. He liked the sound of that.
I felt like writing this after reading Kevin Smith's run of Green Arrow where he introduced this guy. Onomatopoeia gives me so many plotbunnies, I think I'd like to write more. Anyway, obviously he's not mine, and belongs to dc, I'm just borrowing him for a bit. Thanks for reading!