Shards of glass in a beating heart. But then the heart stops, the beat ends, and the man standing alive and over the body doesn’t feel any remorse or guilt. His job was to kill. He doesn’t feel the effects of killing someone, as he only craves a drink and the money he’s owed. The backroom is dark, but the blood shines, and echoes of passing cars outside add noise. Next to the body is a book, one written by the victim. A book about choice and integrity. The killer picks it up and flicks through the crisp pages, not absorbing the wordplay or message. He throws it back at the body, and opens his notebook, detailing how he killed the author. This is the thing, this killer details every scratch, every bruise, and every piece of glass that cut the heart.
He’s a psycho. A man on the verge. A man on the cusp of blowing up his own world, or even the world we all live in. He’s disjointed from society, hurrying through the smog rich city, with the word death scorched into his mind. And the moonlight is his calling, he loves staring at it, and he’d bottle it up if he could. He cleans up the scene intricacy and puts the body in the boot of his car. He starts the ignition and drives off into dark streets.
This city is tired. The man driving through it isn’t. He suffers from insomnia, so he’s awake mostly at night. And what he sees in this city is deprivation and altercation, floods of people fighting for their lives daily. It doesn’t worry him though, as he’s numb to such desperation.
The streetlamps shimmer, the graffiti is highlighted in such glorious splendor. Artists live here, spreading magic upon a despondent city. They’re in rags, sitting under bridges, heartbroken by the system. The killer, the hitman, feels nothing for these people, these artists who are gifted but placed down the pecking order. His beliefs are only rooted in intricacy and how he can kill quietly and fashionably.
He stops the car in his garage. He opens the trunk and carries the body through to the house. No one saw him, but he knew no one would, anyway. Inside the house, everything gleams. There is nothing out of place. In the basement, the body lies on a slab. The killer feels the body, it’s cold, its hardening.
The killer is proud. He knows it’s another achievement. He even smiles amidst the stench. And there’s no need for his rasping voice to come into play, he doesn’t need to speak or a sing a melody for the dead. The dead man, who once wrote books about the human mind, the state of decay, the standard of living, discolors.
Joy has been murdered by this demented killer. Money has become the obsession. Killing has become the passion. Fascination has become the norm. And the incinerator has burnt through the dead on copious occasions, deeming them unrecognizable as the ashes form. Troubled as a youth, troubled as an adult, this killer has no filter.
The flames crave the body. The killer ticks off the notepad.
The body burns as the money is electronically sent to his bank account.
Such easy money…
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