Rage in Writing (Amor Omnia Vincit)
Snapping someone's neck seems unusually difficult. It's not like I've ever tried, but compared with other limbs, the neck is thicker and less prone to snapping.
Thoughts have plagued over these past few weeks, thoughts of death, thoughts of killing, and maiming, and slaughter and honor. Honor, above all. The rage never takes over without the honor. Violations run rampant, excuses for the killing. Beneath the veneer of honor, the rage seethes, released only at the behest of honor, at the behest of dignity, and preservation, and protection and injustice. Injustice, above all else. Certain injustices most of all, like hatred, and inequality, and abuse. Why? I don't know, and that's not what scares me the most. The rage boils, and seethes, and erupts. When? I don't know. It hasn't happened yet, so I don't know when. How can I predict the future? Somewhere I feel it will happen in a moment of injustice, in the guise of honor, and then in the form of death. I pity the man in my way when the rage controls, guides, and fuels me. He will regret it more than I shall pity him. But I will pity him, and he will not regret it much further past the short, somewhat inevitable rest of his life.
But I'll get to check my theories on necks. And how well they snap.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Today is a good day to kill someone. The sky is overcast, just the way I like it, and the trip to school ended with a sprinkle of ice-cold sleet, ice as cold as the tears on her cheeks. After the weeks and weeks of torment, this was the day it would end, for me, for all of us. Two days into the week, and I had already had too much of her face in my head. The more I thought things in hopes of removing her, the more she fought to stay, and she was such a fighter. Such an excellent killer. How she did it, I don't know. I don't think any man does. She loved so much to feed on the hatred, the turmoil, to sip at the edges of my pool of insanity, too innocent to be touched, even disturbed in the slightest. Such an excellent killer.
Whose face? Why, Death's, of course.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I rode the bus to school as usual, never suspecting that today would be any different. Sounds stupid, doesn't it? Like some stupid documentary on the History Channel about the survivors of a horrific plane crash in the Andes, or in Central America among the cannibals, or some other, God-cursed patch of primitive hell that leaves white America shivering in their collective boots. But the survivors tell it true
Thoughts have plagued over these past few weeks, thoughts of death, thoughts of killing, and maiming, and slaughter and honor. Honor, above all. The rage never takes over without the honor. Violations run rampant, excuses for the killing. Beneath the veneer of honor, the rage seethes, released only at the behest of honor, at the behest of dignity, and preservation, and protection and injustice. Injustice, above all else. Certain injustices most of all, like hatred, and inequality, and abuse. Why? I don't know, and that's not what scares me the most. The rage boils, and seethes, and erupts. When? I don't know. It hasn't happened yet, so I don't know when. How can I predict the future? Somewhere I feel it will happen in a moment of injustice, in the guise of honor, and then in the form of death. I pity the man in my way when the rage controls, guides, and fuels me. He will regret it more than I shall pity him. But I will pity him, and he will not regret it much further past the short, somewhat inevitable rest of his life.
But I'll get to check my theories on necks. And how well they snap.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Today is a good day to kill someone. The sky is overcast, just the way I like it, and the trip to school ended with a sprinkle of ice-cold sleet, ice as cold as the tears on her cheeks. After the weeks and weeks of torment, this was the day it would end, for me, for all of us. Two days into the week, and I had already had too much of her face in my head. The more I thought things in hopes of removing her, the more she fought to stay, and she was such a fighter. Such an excellent killer. How she did it, I don't know. I don't think any man does. She loved so much to feed on the hatred, the turmoil, to sip at the edges of my pool of insanity, too innocent to be touched, even disturbed in the slightest. Such an excellent killer.
Whose face? Why, Death's, of course.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I rode the bus to school as usual, never suspecting that today would be any different. Sounds stupid, doesn't it? Like some stupid documentary on the History Channel about the survivors of a horrific plane crash in the Andes, or in Central America among the cannibals, or some other, God-cursed patch of primitive hell that leaves white America shivering in their collective boots. But the survivors tell it true