"The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time."- Mark Twain
He lay there, his head cracked open, his face disfigured and bullet holes seen clearly on his face.
She sat there, holding the body, her forehead touching the dead man's eyes. Two dark circles of lifelessness. She didn't know what to do. What to think. He died. He just...died.
The moon was eerie and looked down upon the houses and flats with their residents. The residents who couldn't hear the muffled gun-shot or the footsteps of a murderer. A man who whistled a tune. A tune of death and despair.
She pulled away. She looked down at the book that sat on his chest. His knuckles were pale and his face was that of a dead mans'.
The book she held in her hands was leather-bound with dry blood on the pages, the blood of someone who could never die. He jumped off a building and didn't die.
She flipped through the book, stopping to see a scribbled word or two. Nothing of significance. She continued and stopped on the last page.
In dastardly elegant cursive, it said.
Hope you enjoy the body. Quite hard to kill him, I must say. He's a fighter. A clever one. If he didn't stand in my way, I might have left him alone to get baffled by how I do things. Sadly, he's a hazard. Far too clever and too logical to even amuse me.
Hope you and John like the body.
-Sincerely yours, The Whistler.