Staring Down A Loaded Gun.
Fire At Will.
She walked alone, refusing to look up, eyes cast downwards towards to ground. She glanced at a few gravestones as she passed them hurriedly, determined to reach her destination before it was too late. There was a small crater in one as though someone had kicked it.
She continued walking, the late night dew that had settled on the grass soaking straight through her shoes and saturating her bare feet. She pulled her jacket around her body a little tighter, the object in the left pocket pressing against her, and tugged her hood forward to cover her face, protecting it against the cold.
She walked a little further before she spotted him, kneeling and hunched over a small, crumbling headstone, his shoulders heaving and shuddering violently. He let out a strangled wail and slumped forward, pounding the ground with his fist.
She stood behind him, watching him cry for some time before he finally turned and stared up at her through red, bloodshot eyes.
She put her hand into her left pocket, not taking her eyes of him the entire time. She drew out a gun, pointing it directly at his head.
“You…what…what are you…”
He was stuttering, unable to form a complete sentence as she stared at him, her cold, emotionless, unforgiving eyes staring straight into his soul. She could feel everything he felt.
And, with just a single moment’s hesitation, she squeezed and fired. The gun went off with a resounding bang. The man fell backwards, his head knocking against the gravestone, his own blood seeping through his shirt and into the ground, staining the grass a deep, crimson red. In these few seconds, all he had lived, and dreamed, and experienced, and suffered was lost. In the blink of an eye, everything he lived for was gone.
“Pity,” she mumbled. A small smirk crossed her face, and she turned her back and walked off.
She crossed the street, glancing around anxiously. She had always had a haunting, paranoid fear that one day she would be caught. It was starting to rain, light, freezing raindrops falling and settling in her dark hair, her hood now off, resting against her back. She walked through the quiet neighborhood, her eyes darting from one house to the net, each time half expecting someone to come bursting out to apprehend her.
The moonlit sky offered her no comfort, the light illuminating her face. This was a problem. She had a very recognizable face.
She finally reached her house, a small, shabby, rundown 2-bedroom. She walked up the pebbled path, the loud crunching of her feet against the stones making her even more nervous. She pushed open the door, its paint peeling and flaking, and walked towards the back of the house. She tugged off her jacket slowly and collapsed in her bed, thinking over the nights events. This was no different from any other night, why was this particular one making her so troubled?
Someone had been watching, she was sure of it.
She spread herself out on her back. The thought, the one that pestered and haunted and worried her every waking moment, hit her yet again. Why did she do this? Why does she kill these innocent people? These people had done nothing wrong, they were undeserving of this cruel and sudden end. She had nothing against them and they her. Maybe it was the rush - the thrill - she got. There was something more, definitely, but this was part of it.
Ever since she was around 13, she had obsessed herself with death. There was something so alluring about this idea of death, the concept, and everything to do with it, that she fell in love with. She was sure this made up another part, but there was still something missing, a certain missing link as to why she enjoyed this - killing - so much.
It was as though her ‘victims’ put on a show for her every time. A brand new show. Always a different setting, a different reaction, sometimes a fight, other times not. The looks on their faces as she drew the gun. Some of it never changed. There were never any witnesses, she couldn’t risk it. There was always the gun. She had never liked to be sneaky about her methods, never poisoning or anything of the sort. She wanted to witness their deaths, right in front of her. She wanted to feel exactly what they felt. She fed off their emotions and feelings.
[It isn’t that much fun, staring down a loaded gun]
She continued walking, the late night dew that had settled on the grass soaking straight through her shoes and saturating her bare feet. She pulled her jacket around her body a little tighter, the object in the left pocket pressing against her, and tugged her hood forward to cover her face, protecting it against the cold.
She walked a little further before she spotted him, kneeling and hunched over a small, crumbling headstone, his shoulders heaving and shuddering violently. He let out a strangled wail and slumped forward, pounding the ground with his fist.
She stood behind him, watching him cry for some time before he finally turned and stared up at her through red, bloodshot eyes.
She put her hand into her left pocket, not taking her eyes of him the entire time. She drew out a gun, pointing it directly at his head.
“You…what…what are you…”
He was stuttering, unable to form a complete sentence as she stared at him, her cold, emotionless, unforgiving eyes staring straight into his soul. She could feel everything he felt.
And, with just a single moment’s hesitation, she squeezed and fired. The gun went off with a resounding bang. The man fell backwards, his head knocking against the gravestone, his own blood seeping through his shirt and into the ground, staining the grass a deep, crimson red. In these few seconds, all he had lived, and dreamed, and experienced, and suffered was lost. In the blink of an eye, everything he lived for was gone.
“Pity,” she mumbled. A small smirk crossed her face, and she turned her back and walked off.
She crossed the street, glancing around anxiously. She had always had a haunting, paranoid fear that one day she would be caught. It was starting to rain, light, freezing raindrops falling and settling in her dark hair, her hood now off, resting against her back. She walked through the quiet neighborhood, her eyes darting from one house to the net, each time half expecting someone to come bursting out to apprehend her.
The moonlit sky offered her no comfort, the light illuminating her face. This was a problem. She had a very recognizable face.
She finally reached her house, a small, shabby, rundown 2-bedroom. She walked up the pebbled path, the loud crunching of her feet against the stones making her even more nervous. She pushed open the door, its paint peeling and flaking, and walked towards the back of the house. She tugged off her jacket slowly and collapsed in her bed, thinking over the nights events. This was no different from any other night, why was this particular one making her so troubled?
Someone had been watching, she was sure of it.
She spread herself out on her back. The thought, the one that pestered and haunted and worried her every waking moment, hit her yet again. Why did she do this? Why does she kill these innocent people? These people had done nothing wrong, they were undeserving of this cruel and sudden end. She had nothing against them and they her. Maybe it was the rush - the thrill - she got. There was something more, definitely, but this was part of it.
Ever since she was around 13, she had obsessed herself with death. There was something so alluring about this idea of death, the concept, and everything to do with it, that she fell in love with. She was sure this made up another part, but there was still something missing, a certain missing link as to why she enjoyed this - killing - so much.
It was as though her ‘victims’ put on a show for her every time. A brand new show. Always a different setting, a different reaction, sometimes a fight, other times not. The looks on their faces as she drew the gun. Some of it never changed. There were never any witnesses, she couldn’t risk it. There was always the gun. She had never liked to be sneaky about her methods, never poisoning or anything of the sort. She wanted to witness their deaths, right in front of her. She wanted to feel exactly what they felt. She fed off their emotions and feelings.
[It isn’t that much fun, staring down a loaded gun]