Silas
Silas
A line of cocaine can be quite refreshing. A line of coke, and then you’re right as ready to go about your daily business. Increased energy and concentration, heightened wakefulness, mood booster – perfect for those days when you really don’t want to get out of bed. Good, too, in the sense that the euphoric feeling received from blowing someone’s brains out was doubled when under the influence.
Silas never had any problems with guilt. Which was very convenient, considering his preferred pastime. It wouldn’t have been as easy to play around with guns, had he been bothered by remorse for all the innocent people he did in. But as luck would have it, he could go about shooting people point blank and not feel a sting of shame.
He hadn’t had a bad childhood. His mother loved him, his father likewise (even if he wasn’t too skilled at showing it) and he had two younger twin sisters whom he was very fond of. He had a group of friends that he would hang out with, decent grades and even a steady girlfriend during the first two years of high school. With an international business major in his back pocket, once school was out Silas went on a three-month bender. Drugs – snorted, injected, swallowed - and alcohol in a dire mix guaranteed his ineptitude at socialising, working and generally keeping a proper life going. However he managed to keep his self-destructive lifestyle away from his parents for so long is quite a mystery, but once the word reached them it wasn’t long before they’d gotten their son into rehab. Indeed rather reluctantly on Silas’ part, but he got through his rehabilitation programme and was let out into the world as a cured young man. Well, there’s cured and “cured”. Silas was the latter.
When he carried a gun, he always wore the rosary necklace given to him by his grandmother (now deceased). Green and red beads connected with sterling silver links. He wasn’t religious in any way, but the rosary had become something of a mascot, a part of the routine. When the shot had been fired (he never used more than one bullet unless it was necessary), he would reach inside his shirt to retrieve the cross and give it a kiss. Not having the rosary with him for whatever reason would upset him and throw him off track. A line of coke, a gun and his rosary – that was all Silas needed.
He’d gotten hold of his first gun only weeks after getting out of rehab. A Colt 1911 Govt 38 Super 5" Blue that he’d gotten fairly cheap in a shady deal in an alley somewhere. It had served him good, and he still had it even if he didn’t use it. He’d started out gently with shooting animals, mainly dogs. Pretty soon he came to the conclusion that dogs were boring due to their lack of fear when facing the barrel of a gun, and instead turned his sights elsewhere. His first human victim was, logically enough, a dog owner. The dog ran free.
Over time, he got more and more experimental, and developed a penchant to toy with his victims. What’s the fun in shooting someone in the back of their head, when you can hold them at gun point and watch their pathetic forms squirm and beg for mercy? Silas found much more satisfaction in making them cry and plead for their lives, letting them believe he would let them walk, only to put a bullet between their eyes as they smiled and thanked him.
The grace in a collapsing body was one of the best things about killing people. The way it would arch away from the gun and crumble into a motionless heap on the floor was almost arousing; in the combination with cocaine it was almost better than sex.
Tuesday morning. Tuesday was such a nothing day; Monday was the first day of the week, Wednesday the middle, Thursday was a slope down to Friday, which was the end of the working week, and Saturday and Sunday were the weekend. But Tuesday, Tuesday was nothing. Therefore Silas saw it fit to take a shower, have breakfast, snort a line of cocaine and load his gun. Rosary beads safely around his neck, he left his two-room apartment to find someone whose life had to end for the sheer purpose of amusing him.
Having another human being at point blank always filled Silas with the urge to laugh. The rush of adrenaline that comes with having another person’s life in your hands was intoxicating. As he looked down on the man kneeling in front of him, he felt that rush anew and barely managed to suppress the laughter. The man’s blue eyes were tear-filled, but no water had yet escaped from them. He was trembling noticeably, looking up at Silas with a silent plea. Silas had little interest in silent pleas. If there was any begging, it should be said out loud.
“You want to go, don’t you?” he asked in a silky voice.
The man barely nodded, afraid to get his head pierced if he did any major movements.
“If I were you I’d be dead still, ‘cause if you move, I’ll blow your fucking head off,” declared Silas in a sing-song voice, showing his teeth in a wolf-like smile.
‘Please’ was the word mouthed by the man, before he found his voice. “Please, don’t shoot me... I’ve got a wife and kids, please don’t do this.”
Silas chuckled – the prospect of tearing a family apart gave the whole thing a little more spice. “Give me one reason not to.”
Closing the door and locking it, both with the regular lock and the lock chain, Silas placed the Glock 22 40 SW on the hallway table, running a hand through his hair. The excitement was wearing off, and the effects of the cocaine with that. He looked at the kitchen clock – ten past ten. Perhaps some rest was due. With a yawn he proceeded into his bedroom, allowing himself to crash down on the bed with as much grace as an albatross coming in for landing, and within minutes he was fast asleep.
He dreamt of flying over a vast ocean
Silas never had any problems with guilt. Which was very convenient, considering his preferred pastime. It wouldn’t have been as easy to play around with guns, had he been bothered by remorse for all the innocent people he did in. But as luck would have it, he could go about shooting people point blank and not feel a sting of shame.
He hadn’t had a bad childhood. His mother loved him, his father likewise (even if he wasn’t too skilled at showing it) and he had two younger twin sisters whom he was very fond of. He had a group of friends that he would hang out with, decent grades and even a steady girlfriend during the first two years of high school. With an international business major in his back pocket, once school was out Silas went on a three-month bender. Drugs – snorted, injected, swallowed - and alcohol in a dire mix guaranteed his ineptitude at socialising, working and generally keeping a proper life going. However he managed to keep his self-destructive lifestyle away from his parents for so long is quite a mystery, but once the word reached them it wasn’t long before they’d gotten their son into rehab. Indeed rather reluctantly on Silas’ part, but he got through his rehabilitation programme and was let out into the world as a cured young man. Well, there’s cured and “cured”. Silas was the latter.
When he carried a gun, he always wore the rosary necklace given to him by his grandmother (now deceased). Green and red beads connected with sterling silver links. He wasn’t religious in any way, but the rosary had become something of a mascot, a part of the routine. When the shot had been fired (he never used more than one bullet unless it was necessary), he would reach inside his shirt to retrieve the cross and give it a kiss. Not having the rosary with him for whatever reason would upset him and throw him off track. A line of coke, a gun and his rosary – that was all Silas needed.
He’d gotten hold of his first gun only weeks after getting out of rehab. A Colt 1911 Govt 38 Super 5" Blue that he’d gotten fairly cheap in a shady deal in an alley somewhere. It had served him good, and he still had it even if he didn’t use it. He’d started out gently with shooting animals, mainly dogs. Pretty soon he came to the conclusion that dogs were boring due to their lack of fear when facing the barrel of a gun, and instead turned his sights elsewhere. His first human victim was, logically enough, a dog owner. The dog ran free.
Over time, he got more and more experimental, and developed a penchant to toy with his victims. What’s the fun in shooting someone in the back of their head, when you can hold them at gun point and watch their pathetic forms squirm and beg for mercy? Silas found much more satisfaction in making them cry and plead for their lives, letting them believe he would let them walk, only to put a bullet between their eyes as they smiled and thanked him.
The grace in a collapsing body was one of the best things about killing people. The way it would arch away from the gun and crumble into a motionless heap on the floor was almost arousing; in the combination with cocaine it was almost better than sex.
Tuesday morning. Tuesday was such a nothing day; Monday was the first day of the week, Wednesday the middle, Thursday was a slope down to Friday, which was the end of the working week, and Saturday and Sunday were the weekend. But Tuesday, Tuesday was nothing. Therefore Silas saw it fit to take a shower, have breakfast, snort a line of cocaine and load his gun. Rosary beads safely around his neck, he left his two-room apartment to find someone whose life had to end for the sheer purpose of amusing him.
Having another human being at point blank always filled Silas with the urge to laugh. The rush of adrenaline that comes with having another person’s life in your hands was intoxicating. As he looked down on the man kneeling in front of him, he felt that rush anew and barely managed to suppress the laughter. The man’s blue eyes were tear-filled, but no water had yet escaped from them. He was trembling noticeably, looking up at Silas with a silent plea. Silas had little interest in silent pleas. If there was any begging, it should be said out loud.
“You want to go, don’t you?” he asked in a silky voice.
The man barely nodded, afraid to get his head pierced if he did any major movements.
“If I were you I’d be dead still, ‘cause if you move, I’ll blow your fucking head off,” declared Silas in a sing-song voice, showing his teeth in a wolf-like smile.
‘Please’ was the word mouthed by the man, before he found his voice. “Please, don’t shoot me... I’ve got a wife and kids, please don’t do this.”
Silas chuckled – the prospect of tearing a family apart gave the whole thing a little more spice. “Give me one reason not to.”
Closing the door and locking it, both with the regular lock and the lock chain, Silas placed the Glock 22 40 SW on the hallway table, running a hand through his hair. The excitement was wearing off, and the effects of the cocaine with that. He looked at the kitchen clock – ten past ten. Perhaps some rest was due. With a yawn he proceeded into his bedroom, allowing himself to crash down on the bed with as much grace as an albatross coming in for landing, and within minutes he was fast asleep.
He dreamt of flying over a vast ocean
♠ ♠ ♠
First line came into my head at random, and I went with the flow. Quite like how it turned out. The character in himself is a very interesting person, in my mind.