Hinged on stubbornness, squelched by the regrets of others, all but abandoned on a dusty rock that it was said hurled through space, he took one more look around himself, and then let out a sigh that made room for more pain. The metallic wind whipped up the barren sands and cloaked the low-hung sun with crimson and tangerine brush strokes that stole hope from the sky for a brief moment, all for the sake of illusions and mockery. The dust tasted like savagery and emptiness.
"So this is what a man will do to another man..." Those were the last words of the last man whom he had slain on this prarie of desolation. Truth rang out like a bell of reckoning waiting to avenge the dusty ashes of every life he had snuffed out. Yes, it was true that his steely-grey eyes were cold and void of emotion. There was no lie in stating that this rogue for hire was founded on principles that do not involve compassion or empathy.
His long, tattered coat flapped in the wind and wrapped around his legs as he stood gazing off into the distance at nothing in particular while he contemplated his worthlessness. His hat threatened to blow off, but it was almost as if it was afraid to be set free and it clung to his head without so much as a string or even a hand to hold it down. The bones of his judgments dangled from his neck in a long, clinking strand, menacing to those who saw him coming for them. It wasn't a trophy as some thought. It was more of a warning; a last moment to escape if fate would permit the opportunity to do so. Every soul that he had released from it's fleshy-prison was adorned around his neck by one bone or another and they rebounded off his heart with every crunchy step he took on the dehydrated and crackled ground. It's weight was not measured by a scale that could be tipped, but by the pith, the ethos, as it were, that emanated from within the talisman that he adorned. He felt as though it were stealing his breath, or maybe just removing elements of his own soul. Either way, he felt exceptionally burdened by it.
For every action there is a reaction. For every eb there is a flow. For every joy there is a sorrow and for every life there is a death. It wasn't as if he was breaking the rules. There were no rules. And he certainly wasn't blaspheming the things of sacred tradition or shunning the notions of "right and wrong". He was only performing the tasks that others could not. He provided a service that was necessary. So why was he now aware of the intricate system of vibrancy and extravagant networking powers that connected one thing to the next; one being to another?
His mind fidgeted with these thoughts while he rolled a cigarette between his calloused and blood stained fingers. He looked again off into the void of the sky as he lit his cigarette and blew the smoke out with hard-earned weariness and well-deserved fatigue. His mind danced as if he were otherwise engaged in a masquerade ball, full of mysteries and secrets behind every mask. He could see the lines and dots connecting, the nerves and stars interwoven into a tapestry, the colors and sounds of every mystery interlocked and lined one to the other. It was like looking at a pointillism painting or like listening to the sound of waves over the wind; there was clarity, but confusion, as well.
He squinted and took another drag of his cigarette, then took a single step and stopped. "It's all connected...", he murmured to himself. "Huh. Who knew?" And with that, he sauntered off with his coat flapping wildly behind him. He peered at the crinkled list of 'hits' in his pocket, scratched the last one off, and determined which one he would advance towards next. Maybe the next one will see him coming and save themselves before he had to avert their soul to a path laden with death. Maybe he wouldn't have to cause that tapestry to snag. Maybe...
