The way she lets her hair flow in the wind keeps me breathless. She twists and turns as the leaves blow past; an endless dance to an endless life. They say itâ€™s the season for wisdom, heralding a season of death to come. That season has long since past and Iâ€™m watching her dance in her tattered dress in the middle of a vacant park. Still, I find myself hesitating at my duty.
Some might say what I do is heartless, but they donâ€™t get to appreciate beauty like I do. They donâ€™t understand what life is until they kill something that shouldnâ€™t be living. They might call up more laws to stop me from doing what Iâ€™m doing, but in the end they know a higher power agrees with me. It just reminds me of how they are all just little insects that will never leave their moral homes. Iâ€™m the hunter, and I am the artist. Right now, sheâ€™s become my muse and my prey. I am beside myself.
Yet, Iâ€™m still watching her. I could sit here all day upwind from her and watch her live out whatâ€™s left inside of her. Some scientists call it mental twitches, but I know itâ€™s deeper than that. My eyes canâ€™t blink because Iâ€™m afraid she might see me and the dance will be over. Iâ€™m afraid because I want that beauty in her to last forever even though a part of me knows it wonâ€™t. It never does.
Everything is a mix of brown, red and yellow. Itâ€™s a miasma of a bitter rainbow but it makes her stand out amongst the color of flames. She might have burned with the rest, but Iâ€™m just too happy to be spying on her this moment. Most of them would have stopped by now, smelled the air and realized they werenâ€™t alone. Itâ€™s tough to say what they smell like, but I know from experience that itâ€™s not a good scent.
The wind picks up, and now I can see her face. Itâ€™s still pretty, still untainted by her affliction and for a moment I am doubtful of my duty. For a second I can loosen my grip on the deadly tool in my grasp. It is only that brief passing of time that I allow myself a semblance of peace, and maybe Iâ€™ll pray someday that they all make it back and that this will all be a bad dream. Someday just isnâ€™t today.
Sheâ€™s wavering now, something I tend to get nervous over. This one is so pretty, so very gorgeous and I wonder if maybe I would have liked her, if maybe before things went sour if Iâ€™d had the chance to take her out for coffee and made love to her in a satin-sheeted bed. Her faltering ruins that. Itâ€™s the way her step hesitates, the look of that particularly rigid kind of stance that they make just before they go vile. Yes, I can feel the sting of salty tears because I know if this were any other place, any other time; Iâ€™d go to hell for doing such a thing.
I have to keep one thought in mind as I tug back the mechanism to load the Remington. This is hell. This is the reckoning. They arenâ€™t alive, and I canâ€™t go back. No, I canâ€™t make her dance again like she did before. The only thing I can doâ€¦ is put her down and all the others just like her.