Broken
You stretch out and rub your temples. You try to fall asleep again, but your downstairs neighbour, Mrs Faith, is playing her piano again. You've told her that you like to sleep late, but she answered that decent and responsible people get up no later than ten am, adding that maybe her music might cure you of your bad habits.
You don't like people. Not just the ones like Mrs Faith, but people in general. They are hollow. They walk and drive and fly around like blinded animals. Ants living in a nest. Hiveminded. Except there is no queen ant to support or any other common goal, just meaningless existence with self-deceptive excuses. Love? Money? Power? You never found any of them. Except power, although not "power" understood as influence over other men, but power at an individual level. The power of the hunter over the hunted. The power of taking someone's life at will. The power of experiencing death.
You feel your abdomen with your hand and realize that you're slowly developing a belly. Your body used to be in better shape, but after your last period of emptiness, you haven't got the interest to be in top condition any more. In pop-culture, professional murderers were always in the best possible condition both physically and mentally. When they weren't exercising or practicing martial arts at the gym they were studying close combat tactics or popping some rounds at the shooting range. It wasn't entirely false, in order to stay alive and make a stable living in this line of work you did have to be 100% prepared for every gig.
You aren't looking for anything, searching for a meaning in death doesn't seem worthwhile anymore. A few years (which felt like a hundred) ago you felt so frustrated with your life and your difference in contrast to other people that you sought desperately for something, anything that would make you feel like there was a reason or at least an excuse to exist. That something, was killing. There was something liberating in it. The essence of something meaningful could be perceived when you watched death. It fascinated you in a macabre way. Also, the role of the hunter, the unseen executioner, entertained you. You enjoyed it, the whole game. The danger, the planning, the feeling of pulling the trigger, the thud against your arm, that look everything. When you started working you practiced and planned every job with devotion. You quickly became very good, and the right parties started to notice it. You had a steady income.
But now there isn't anything to find in those eyes. Not anymore. You've lost it. You feel empty. It's hard to describe. You're getting old.
Your neighbour is still playing. You open your eyes and watch your roof and feel helpless. Chopin. She has been practicing the same song for some months now. You wonder what time it is, but not for long, as your red desktop phone starts to ring, which must mean its five pm and Don is calling.
You don't like people. Not just the ones like Mrs Faith, but people in general. They are hollow. They walk and drive and fly around like blinded animals. Ants living in a nest. Hiveminded. Except there is no queen ant to support or any other common goal, just meaningless existence with self-deceptive excuses. Love? Money? Power? You never found any of them. Except power, although not "power" understood as influence over other men, but power at an individual level. The power of the hunter over the hunted. The power of taking someone's life at will. The power of experiencing death.
You feel your abdomen with your hand and realize that you're slowly developing a belly. Your body used to be in better shape, but after your last period of emptiness, you haven't got the interest to be in top condition any more. In pop-culture, professional murderers were always in the best possible condition both physically and mentally. When they weren't exercising or practicing martial arts at the gym they were studying close combat tactics or popping some rounds at the shooting range. It wasn't entirely false, in order to stay alive and make a stable living in this line of work you did have to be 100% prepared for every gig.
You aren't looking for anything, searching for a meaning in death doesn't seem worthwhile anymore. A few years (which felt like a hundred) ago you felt so frustrated with your life and your difference in contrast to other people that you sought desperately for something, anything that would make you feel like there was a reason or at least an excuse to exist. That something, was killing. There was something liberating in it. The essence of something meaningful could be perceived when you watched death. It fascinated you in a macabre way. Also, the role of the hunter, the unseen executioner, entertained you. You enjoyed it, the whole game. The danger, the planning, the feeling of pulling the trigger, the thud against your arm, that look everything. When you started working you practiced and planned every job with devotion. You quickly became very good, and the right parties started to notice it. You had a steady income.
But now there isn't anything to find in those eyes. Not anymore. You've lost it. You feel empty. It's hard to describe. You're getting old.
Your neighbour is still playing. You open your eyes and watch your roof and feel helpless. Chopin. She has been practicing the same song for some months now. You wonder what time it is, but not for long, as your red desktop phone starts to ring, which must mean its five pm and Don is calling.