enter the city

I look down at him. On his knees. The food he is trying to slurp is dripping down the sides of his mouth. He looks at me. My heart would break if it could. I’m quite sure of it. A bullet in the head ? Without him I would have nothing. What do I have now ? Nothing. I look down at him. Point the gun to his head. I pull the trigger. A single shot. He falls. Dead before his head hits the ground. Dead.

I’m still here.

I wasn’t sure if it would work. If he had really outlived his usefulness. I had to find out. Dead.

I’m alive. Here. Now. Welcome to Endgame.

The bodies will start to stink in a day or two. I pile a few against the windows. The sooner they find out, the easier it will be. I look at the desiccated man through the opening. I can see him. A slow movement in his chest. His eyes open. Looking at me. His mind holds. Still. “See you around then” I say to him.

I enter the city and she welcomes me in.

there's a man in the wall

I have come to understand one thing. My purpose is to kill. That is what I am. I’ve accepted it. I like it. Its swell. Stop me if you can.

Raw, dirty, hypnotic violent brutal chaotic. My life. No beauty. I like it just fine. I should kill the writer man. I should. Why do I torture him ? A rare moment of doubt. Give me your hands give me your hands. I cut his hands. I enjoyed that. A lot. Still, I should kill him. There’s a man in the wall. I have great things planned for him. Great things. I call him the desiccated man. I gave the writer man his hand. Odd enough now. He made me bleed. He’ll pay for a long time.

You should watch him eat. The writer man. I gain a true measure of his worth. The street dog with its instinct for self preservation. Once a man now a dog. Howling as sanity is taken bit by bit. Is this a dream Mommy ? What do you think writer man ?

I look down at him. Groveling. A dog before his master. Groveling. A bullet in the head would do something now. Not sure what. But something. He would die.

And I would be left with nothing.

just in case

He’s never had it this easy. He may as well be stamping cockroaches to death. That is the ease he has brought to killing. He seems more and more indestructible. Most of the time I visit my island with the crystal clear sea and the palm trees that sway to an ever present breeze. Most times.

He is starting to notice me again. He looks at me. I cannot read his expression. I know everything that he can do but I do not know what he will do.

He came into my room two days ago. A knife in his hand. A smile on his face. My island deserted me and I faced him with fear churning my insides. He looked at me for what seemed a long time. I could not look back at him. He smiled. “just in case, writer man, just in case.” He came up to me. Easy and noiseless and quick. He grabbed my arm. He hit me. I fell. I woke up tied to a chair. My hands tied down on the table in front of me. Pathi stood. Still smiling. Still holding the knife in his hand. “Just in case what ?” I asked him. Still reasonable. “Just in case you were planning to kill me.” The knife came down on my right hand. The four fingers were severed in one movement. I could admire the neat cut I could see the blood I screamed. I screamed. Shock. I fainted for the second time in the day. The last thing I saw was Pathi. Admiring his handiwork. Smiling at me.

I woke up and looked down at my hands. No more fingers. Neatly wrapped in white bandage. My hands. No more fingers. I always wondered what shooting bolts of pain would feel like. I know now. I asked him, “why don’t you kill me ? Kill me now.” “What’s the fun in that writer man ? It may be a difficult thing to eat but I’m sure you’ll figure something out.” “My hands you fucking cunt. You took my fingers. Fuck you!” He laughed at that. He seems to be happy. He walked out of the room. Still laughing.