Status: Done
The Stopwatch
Three
He tapped the stopwatch button. He didn’t get up until the trachea stopped pulsating. He raised somewhat agitated and leaned on the wall staring at the body. His open panting mouth slowly became a smile. A smile as pure and heartfelt as he had ever uttered. Only after some moments of contemplation did he dare look down. Careless, unaware to the use that it had been given, the shiny face of the stopwatch screened 3 digits.
1 minute 24 seconds. He nodded. It was neither his best nor his worst record. He returned it to his pocket. He looked left and right and calmed his breathing after a while. Some cartons grabbed from the dustbins would have to suffice. Her hair whistled gently as it was pulled to the edge of the alley he had chosen for her rest. Patrols come around here at night looking for junkies more often than not, so they’d most probably find it then. He wouldn’t be far away. But in a way he would not even be in the same world. As an omnipotent narrator it is my faculty to inform, much to everyone’s demise, that he would never be caught.
Detectives will come and take pictures. Maybe even file them in the same box as the ones of his other acts. Perhaps they’ll start referring to a “Downtown Choker” or something like that. But never will these stumbles lead them to the car that had become the house of Michael Bjorman.
The body now waits for the inquirers under the foggy sky. It would be safe to assume it hopes to tell a story that’ll help justice emerge. But it won’t. There is no trace. No fallen hairs for he was wearing a cap. No spit since he’d tightened his lips harshly. No prints from his taped fingertips. A ghost couldn’t have done a better job.
Curious how all this brought us to ghosts. Do ghosts exist? Perhaps even her ghost could be spotted crying her harrowing end amidst the gray urban haze. Let’s imagine her staring with cold eyes at her slain body and the man who did this. Let us see her ascend slowly and disappear into nothingness, giving before a hand wave in his direction. We’ll call it forgiveness.
He can’t keep the grin off his face. Luckily we can dig deep into his soul to find a small root for joy and put it under the microscope. It’s made of ash and won’t last long. For that minute and 24 seconds he wasn’t the helpless counter. He wasn’t a compulsive maniac. The way he saw it, during those moments he had been only human. He had been part of the random nonsense that this planet seems to abide.
That’s what the stopwatch was for. He knew he would lose all track of time during the act. His head would spin around in a frenzy without remembering its rigid nature. No meters, no kilograms, no hectoliters. No weight, no height, no nothing. He needed it to keep sane when reality kicked back in and the grid appeared once again on the face of earth. What if he never knows how much time he lost? What if he loses track of everything? He just wanted to be free, even if for less than 3 minutes. Breathe deeply and let go without worrying about the length.
But that would vanish as all things do. The only rest he found from this torture would fade shortly. Now he walks off into the poetic purple sunset. He looks up for a second. He likes it. Then his sight turns hollow and his skin snow pale. The smile rots in an instantaneous horrid transition and his footsteps become equal. Now he remembers everything. He is Michael Bjorman and has been for 24 years, 217 days and one afternoon. He is a machine. He is a method. He is a murderer. He has a mission.
21 feet and 8 inches separate him from his car which he left parked in the corner of the avenue since last night. He will start it and drive some blocks and take a curve somewhere. For now raindrops start falling. Timidly, like excusing themselves for their delay. He can’t count those, so he doesn’t even take them in consideration. He keeps walking. All that makes sense is countable. Like the lives he has taken. He grabs a notebook out of the glovebox and draws a perfect straight line joining some others.
They add up to 19.
The key is in ignition. He will start it and drive some blocks and take a curve somewhere …someone will be waiting for him. Sealed as fate.
He will stop and get off and start following discreetly. He needs the twentieth. And the thirtieth. And the hundredth.
He wishes this count never stops.
1 minute 24 seconds. He nodded. It was neither his best nor his worst record. He returned it to his pocket. He looked left and right and calmed his breathing after a while. Some cartons grabbed from the dustbins would have to suffice. Her hair whistled gently as it was pulled to the edge of the alley he had chosen for her rest. Patrols come around here at night looking for junkies more often than not, so they’d most probably find it then. He wouldn’t be far away. But in a way he would not even be in the same world. As an omnipotent narrator it is my faculty to inform, much to everyone’s demise, that he would never be caught.
Detectives will come and take pictures. Maybe even file them in the same box as the ones of his other acts. Perhaps they’ll start referring to a “Downtown Choker” or something like that. But never will these stumbles lead them to the car that had become the house of Michael Bjorman.
The body now waits for the inquirers under the foggy sky. It would be safe to assume it hopes to tell a story that’ll help justice emerge. But it won’t. There is no trace. No fallen hairs for he was wearing a cap. No spit since he’d tightened his lips harshly. No prints from his taped fingertips. A ghost couldn’t have done a better job.
Curious how all this brought us to ghosts. Do ghosts exist? Perhaps even her ghost could be spotted crying her harrowing end amidst the gray urban haze. Let’s imagine her staring with cold eyes at her slain body and the man who did this. Let us see her ascend slowly and disappear into nothingness, giving before a hand wave in his direction. We’ll call it forgiveness.
He can’t keep the grin off his face. Luckily we can dig deep into his soul to find a small root for joy and put it under the microscope. It’s made of ash and won’t last long. For that minute and 24 seconds he wasn’t the helpless counter. He wasn’t a compulsive maniac. The way he saw it, during those moments he had been only human. He had been part of the random nonsense that this planet seems to abide.
That’s what the stopwatch was for. He knew he would lose all track of time during the act. His head would spin around in a frenzy without remembering its rigid nature. No meters, no kilograms, no hectoliters. No weight, no height, no nothing. He needed it to keep sane when reality kicked back in and the grid appeared once again on the face of earth. What if he never knows how much time he lost? What if he loses track of everything? He just wanted to be free, even if for less than 3 minutes. Breathe deeply and let go without worrying about the length.
But that would vanish as all things do. The only rest he found from this torture would fade shortly. Now he walks off into the poetic purple sunset. He looks up for a second. He likes it. Then his sight turns hollow and his skin snow pale. The smile rots in an instantaneous horrid transition and his footsteps become equal. Now he remembers everything. He is Michael Bjorman and has been for 24 years, 217 days and one afternoon. He is a machine. He is a method. He is a murderer. He has a mission.
21 feet and 8 inches separate him from his car which he left parked in the corner of the avenue since last night. He will start it and drive some blocks and take a curve somewhere. For now raindrops start falling. Timidly, like excusing themselves for their delay. He can’t count those, so he doesn’t even take them in consideration. He keeps walking. All that makes sense is countable. Like the lives he has taken. He grabs a notebook out of the glovebox and draws a perfect straight line joining some others.
They add up to 19.
The key is in ignition. He will start it and drive some blocks and take a curve somewhere …someone will be waiting for him. Sealed as fate.
He will stop and get off and start following discreetly. He needs the twentieth. And the thirtieth. And the hundredth.
He wishes this count never stops.
♠ ♠ ♠
Hope you liked it. Not a lot of closure, I know. But that makes it interesting, doesn´t it?