Pull the Switch, Turn out the Light, Leave
[Colours]
There is more than one way to kill a man.
one.
He finds it hard to stomach the truth of it all, even as she dissapears before his eyes, like dark ash before a spring breeze, without the promise of a returning bloom. Very hard.
She gives a reassuring smile that is anything but, farewells without a promise of a return.
It is the way it is.
He wishes he could change it.
two.
For months on end he waits. Waits for a hope, a miracle, anything.
With his prayers in the form of a open window. An inviation. Something to believe.
Nothing comes. Nothing changes.
He is starting to feel the beginning weight of desperation.
three.
After nearly two years the window is now shut tight. Nothing comes in or out anymore; fall breezes, winter rains, warm spotlights of summer, the fragrant winds of spring.
Everything is locked up tight.
He's beginning to lose faith in things.
Maybe this is the life he was meant to have.
Maybe.
four.
Graduation comes. At the top of the class, honors down the line, he packs his bags and leaves home.
Leaves everything behind.
He refuses to look back.
Memories are the only ghosts he can see.
five.
College is perhaps the best and most lonely experience of his life. He knows this but refuses to full acknowledge the second.
He isn't here to build new bonds.
Everything that is built eventually falls to waste.
Why should he make the effort?
six.
He becomes a teacher. A professor of English literature. A faraway career of what once was.
He's fully aware of this.
Instead of swinging a sword now he can only read and dream of it. In the deepest part of his conciousness he remembers the jarring hum of steel smashing against steel, the ensuing numbness as those vibrations traveled up his arms and into his bones. The rush of exilaration, the freedom. The joy of the fight.
He pushes those thoughts aside.
This is his reality now.
seven.
He waits for the train. He is vaguely aware of the rain washing down the roof of the station he stands under.
The longer he waits the more cold creeps its way into his bones, finding its way through his thick leather jacket and seeping into his skin. With a soft grunt of annoyance he rummages his way into a pocket and pulls out a fresh package of cigarettes and a lighter.
The glowing tip is alarmingly vibrant in the dreary grey of his surroundings as he lights up.
After a few calming drags off the cancerstick he feels the warmth return to his limbs, he stops and conciders the weather for a moment, the blue grey smoke casting a transparent wreath around his head.
He started smoking at nineteen. A pack a day.
As far as he knows no one has died.
eight.
He walks into the shop, a small crowded place decorated by columns of blue steel, and gazes at the stock like he's an expert at what he's examining.
Maybe he is.
Definitely not those.
He examines the lighter fare, shining in the glow of phosflorecent lighting of the front counter.
Much better.
He decides on a .22.
nine.
He insists on driving to his handpicked location.
Several things weigh on his being: the blue steel .22 in one pocket, a half remembered bronze emblem of his once pride in the other.
And a hope in his head. The windows are open once again.
ten.
He passes by familiar sights; a childs' park turned ghost town in the downpour, a highschool with dark empty windows, a clinic that is near inviting, several alleys of once haunts.
Then finally a river.
He parks and pulls the keys from the ignition, cutting off the warm hum of the car and exits the vehicle.
Probably wont be the last warmth he cuts today.
He begins a leisurely trot towards the swollen riverbank and settles into a childish crouch in the the muddy bank.
He sighs as he extracts both the badge and the cold pistol from his pockets, keeping a firm grasp on the bronze plate while fingering the trigger of the other.
He tightens his hold and closes his eyes as he pulls the switch, turns out the light, and leaves.