It seemed a thousand years ago. It was as if all of the time, the terror
that he had tried so long to ignore was suddenly filling his chest in a
foul sweep of anger and ignorance. All the death that lay at his feet. Each
day, it seemed, more and more bodies fell down around him.
This would be the end. No more tears, no more thoughts of the whole good.
If the pillars fell down, the center could stand. But Duo did not want to
stand alone. He would fall now, and perhaps the four corners could remain,
unscathed and glowing in all of their marble splendor.
He did not want to count, but as he loaded a bullet into the ancient
revolver, he could not help but do so:
One in the face, a woman with curls Two in the shadows, perhaps little girls Three in the windows of burned out cities Four in the heat of battle, with rage flying pretty Five in the corners of his mind's eye Six in the street that did not want to die Seven in the towers that did not want to fall Eight in the hallways that did not scream at all
Someone had once told Duo that he should not count, that it would be easier that way. Duo had tried. He had also failed miserably. He remembered the face of a little girl, a pudgy pink cheek stained with tears and little flecks of blood, as her father fell. Duo had not cared then. He was a general for Oz. But now, with the moon hanging high and the whisky burning deep within, Duo knew everything he had done and could not justify his evil ways any longer. He picked up another bullet, smooth and cold, and slowly pushed it into the pistol. He looked at the backs of the two bullets and decided to remove the one he had put in first. Without a word, Duo clamped the revolver into a whole being, a deadly killing machine. As he brought it to his head, he began to count again:
Nine in the morning, ten in the night Eleven in the battle; that made it alright Twelve in a bakery near an oven Shoot the man outside the store to make a baker's dozen
There was a click. Odds were against him. He shot again. And again. Finally, he had only one chance left. Duo's lips curled into a smile, as his hand gently squeezed the trigger.
One in the face, a woman with curls Two in the shadows, perhaps little girls Three in the windows of burned out cities Four in the heat of battle, with rage flying pretty Five in the corners of his mind's eye Six in the street that did not want to die Seven in the towers that did not want to fall Eight in the hallways that did not scream at all Nine in the morning, ten in the night Eleven in the battle; that made it alright Twelve in a bakery near an oven Shoot the man outside the store to make a baker's dozen
One in the face, a woman with curls Two in the shadows, perhaps little girls Three in the windows of burned out cities Four in the heat of battle, with rage flying pretty Five in the corners of his mind's eye Six in the street that did not want to die Seven in the towers that did not want to fall Eight in the hallways that did not scream at all
Someone had once told Duo that he should not count, that it would be easier that way. Duo had tried. He had also failed miserably. He remembered the face of a little girl, a pudgy pink cheek stained with tears and little flecks of blood, as her father fell. Duo had not cared then. He was a general for Oz. But now, with the moon hanging high and the whisky burning deep within, Duo knew everything he had done and could not justify his evil ways any longer. He picked up another bullet, smooth and cold, and slowly pushed it into the pistol. He looked at the backs of the two bullets and decided to remove the one he had put in first. Without a word, Duo clamped the revolver into a whole being, a deadly killing machine. As he brought it to his head, he began to count again:
Nine in the morning, ten in the night Eleven in the battle; that made it alright Twelve in a bakery near an oven Shoot the man outside the store to make a baker's dozen
There was a click. Odds were against him. He shot again. And again. Finally, he had only one chance left. Duo's lips curled into a smile, as his hand gently squeezed the trigger.
One in the face, a woman with curls Two in the shadows, perhaps little girls Three in the windows of burned out cities Four in the heat of battle, with rage flying pretty Five in the corners of his mind's eye Six in the street that did not want to die Seven in the towers that did not want to fall Eight in the hallways that did not scream at all Nine in the morning, ten in the night Eleven in the battle; that made it alright Twelve in a bakery near an oven Shoot the man outside the store to make a baker's dozen