One time murder story
Rei Nightroad
Before the world mattered
Piece 01 ; So simple
It was al l so easy to see.I've read book upon book about all these kinds of things, but they're all so wrong. As to be expected, of course. You can't trust anyone, especially hypocrites who weave their own fantasies and entrance others into believing them. None of them even know what they're talking about, the fools. Then again, I may be the same as the rest and maybe not. Nothing's for sure and it's all so worthless.
The setting: Me. The bedroom. The house. The unlocked door. The drunkard on the couch. The weakling in the kitchen. Status: Normal. All so normal.
The situation as written by an author: "Oh, it all happened so fast. So quick… and before I knew it, the smell of iron was everywhere. The drum was silenced, and the ringing of the mechanism had been cut off swiftly, like a knife to reality. Then it all went so dark and so light all at the same time. There were no thoughts, no terror, nothing. It happened so quickly. And then it was all over." All wrong. All too human.
This is how I see it. I'm in my room. I'm reading a book my teacher insisted would instill a sense of being and humanity in me, and would give me a much more sensitive view of things. She thinks it will give me emotions and a normal psych. I bet she's tried writing before. I'm on the bed, sitting cross-legged, chest and all weak points unprotected and exposed.
I'm on the page where the pathetic transvestite is giving herself completely to her "one true love", Doctor Keith Stein, arrogant dick-in-training and master pot head, and then I start hearing some noise outside my door. Dropped pots and pans, yelling (drunkard), crying (weakling), slamming doors, and more yelling. First assessment: Drunkard woke up cranky and with an urge to, once again, blame all his problems on the first human available. Prediction: It will end in a few minutes. Action: Keep reading, ignore it.
More noise. It's different this time. Banging, Metal skirting around on the cheap linoleum floors, something hard smacking against skin, a weird cracking noise, a hollow sort of shunking sound. No yelling. Strange. I hear the heavy boots stomping on the floors before anything else. Even stranger. The drunkard would've been barefoot, and if he were coming to pick on me, he would be yelling. Is this a new variable or a new happening?
The door slams open. And the second assessment doesn't even need to be thought. It's all so easy. Man, gun, shoot, dead. The words were more a feeling than a sight or thought, but, all the same, I knew exactly what was happening. Gunshot ringing, pain. Of course there was pain. Only a master marksman or assassin could make a direct shot into the heart so there would be no pain. This man had a shotgun and he looked as if he'd never held a weapon in his life. Reasons? Oh, I'm sure there's a reason behind everything, but what does it matter to know them? The pain was excruciating, splitting, and numbing. Dead.
I knew it before the gunshot, before even the gun, so, in that sense, I had died before the bullet hit the body. There were a few things correct in those books. It was very fast, very real, and I thought of nothing. Nothing. How fitting. I do wonder though, was there ever even a split second within that very human moment that I felt fear or vexation or belonging. Did I ever feel that the world mattered? Did I ever feel anything like that? I'm sure the emotional side to me would like to believe that, as well as quite a few people I know. Saying that would certainly give them something nice to say at the funeral, if there is one. But, as I said before, nothing. Man, gun, shoot, dead. That's it. What a simple thing to see. The easiest assessment I've ever made. How irritating.