Author: SingViolence PM
He didn't care, not even with a gun to his face.Rated: Fiction T - English - Horror/Angst - Words: 895 - Published: 07-12-10 - Status: Complete - id: 2827656
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
"Say your goodbyes, if you have anyone to say them to."
"I guess that sucks for you."
He stared down at the dirt, nudging it nonchalantly with his shoe, his eyes slid close. He never really did understand the last plea thing, it's not like any of it matters. If you're dead, you won't feel the ultimate guilt that should consume a normal being, normal he'd hadn't ever felt that before. Not guilt, not normalcy, it was like he was destined to die the moment he stepped foot on this planet. He glanced up, his face reveling the boredom he's felt over his short lived life; he stared down the barrel of the gun supposedly destined to murder him. It was a bitter-sweet feeling, being face to face with death. He'd never found his purpose, though he no longer had the will to search, so really this apathetic ending was his only way out.
His killer seemed rather intrigued by his attitude, he didn't beg for his life, he didn't even try to run, surely this was something new in the line of victims. Would they still call him a victim, even if he had, in a way, asked for this? He got in the way. The fire of the man's eyes, (which made sure to keep contact with his at all times), was slightly disturbing. He lived for the kill, it was obvious in the overzealous way he watched him, it just all looked like fun for him. Internally he was glad he would never reach the level of this psycho, that it would all end now, or later as the man seemed thrilled in taking his time. For a moment he had the urge to fight back, it would at least speed the process if nothing else.
His fist clenched slightly, a mistake he noted as he soon found the grip of the pistol smashing against the side of his head. He glared, not bothering to move from where the pistol had forced him too. The guy just grinned at him, so he was that kind of psychopath. He straightened back up, staring back at the gun in his face.
"Were you going to kill me, or fuck with me?"
"You don't understand, do you?"
Understanding was out of his realm, there was no point in understanding death if he couldn't manage life. He continued to stare vacantly, hoping that it would be over soon, not like he had anything to do. Boredom was beginning to set it, and he found it no mystery why people found him strange, bored in the face of certain death. But then, death was never certain, so he was just bored, staring down a gun and getting nowhere fast. He waited, for the monologue, that's what happened right? The bad guy always talks before the hero walks, but he was no hero, he only assumed the bad guy would still talk. He was never really sure of anything, he still wasn't sure his death was inevitable; after all, he hadn't died yet. Didn't the inevitable usually turn out to be preventable? Perhaps he watched too many movies in his life span, but he was certain everyone made a mistake sometime to wind up dead. He'd made plenty of mistakes.
"It's not fun if you don't suffer, see?" He smelled smoke, great, a cigarette break. He noticed him staring, and offered him the pack.
"I don't smoke."
"You don't do a lot of things, do ya?"
"Hey, brother, wanna go to the park?"
"Can't you go by yourself? Stop being such a baby."
"You never want to do anything with me!" She stormed out, the front door slammed; he hardly took note of the fury. She'd always forgive him; he'd make it up to her…someday.
He never really cared when his parents had called him heartless, never really cared when his dad hit him for going in her room. They never really cared when he said he wasn't coming back; they blamed him, even though he wasn't the one who stabbed her to death. What difference would it have made if he had gone with her? They would have both died. Maybe he should have gone, it sounded like she died faster than this. He shifted, keeping his eyes fixated on the man in front of him, it didn't really matter what happened from now on. He slid his eyes closed once more; she always told him his lack of motivation was frightening.
"I guess not," He sighed. "But this isn't about me."
"No," He shook his head. "It's about you."
Before he had a chance to take another breath he found himself thrusted to the wall. Anger flooded his mind, but all he found himself doing was staring wide-eyed at his assailant, finally making sense in the situation. His arm was pressed against his throat, pinning him to the unforgiving brick wall. He couldn't find it in him to register the slight stabbing, or the significantly lower amount of oxygen he was receiving, only to wait.
"It's more about what I'm going to do to you."