There could be power in a day like this, he saw that.
He’d tried to dam the river of pride that ran through him, stared at the ground, swallowed hard. The wet pavements reflected street lights moving towards and past him as he moved with urgency. There would be power in this day.
Every injury was opening up as he crossed the street.
A bus flashed by, its interior lighting up the street. Three or four passengers staring ahead like automata, oblivious to all. He crossed the road behind it and thought for a second or two of the thousands of people who would be sitting at home tonight with their families or the others who would be doing things they loved, like reading, playing music, watching a film, holding a hand.
The pub was leaking light and music onto the street. A few customers stood outside smoking, still within reach of the smell of beer and humans, trying to keep a little of the inside alive on the outside. He walked through their smoke and talk and into the warmth and the wall of sound.
Everywhere was shoulders and backs of heads, occasional profiles cracking with laughter. He couldn’t hear what they were laughing at; he didn’t really see them.
A gap opened up as someone pushed back from the bar with three pints of beer in his hands. He saw you through the gap.
He slipped by the pint-carrier, through the closing gap and walked up to the table where you were sat with your sister.
The music changed to Percy Sledge singing Dark End Of The Street as he lifted the revolver from his pocket, placed the end of the barrel to your eye and squeezed the trigger. A beautiful red mist filled the air as your brains erupted through the back of your skull. As you slumped over to your side he took the time to spit in your sister’s face before continuing moving through the pub and leaving by the side door.
This is what it takes to kill a man.
He’d tried to dam the river of pride that ran through him, stared at the ground, swallowed hard. The wet pavements reflected street lights moving towards and past him as he moved with urgency. There would be power in this day.
Every injury was opening up as he crossed the street.
A bus flashed by, its interior lighting up the street. Three or four passengers staring ahead like automata, oblivious to all. He crossed the road behind it and thought for a second or two of the thousands of people who would be sitting at home tonight with their families or the others who would be doing things they loved, like reading, playing music, watching a film, holding a hand.
The pub was leaking light and music onto the street. A few customers stood outside smoking, still within reach of the smell of beer and humans, trying to keep a little of the inside alive on the outside. He walked through their smoke and talk and into the warmth and the wall of sound.
Everywhere was shoulders and backs of heads, occasional profiles cracking with laughter. He couldn’t hear what they were laughing at; he didn’t really see them.
A gap opened up as someone pushed back from the bar with three pints of beer in his hands. He saw you through the gap.
He slipped by the pint-carrier, through the closing gap and walked up to the table where you were sat with your sister.
The music changed to Percy Sledge singing Dark End Of The Street as he lifted the revolver from his pocket, placed the end of the barrel to your eye and squeezed the trigger. A beautiful red mist filled the air as your brains erupted through the back of your skull. As you slumped over to your side he took the time to spit in your sister’s face before continuing moving through the pub and leaving by the side door.
This is what it takes to kill a man.
DG
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