Massive, primeval beings that blot out the sun. They lay, uninterested, far above the world I know. Walls envy them, but obstruction is not their purpose. They exist to exist. A spire to unending stubbornness, waiting eons for their eventual erosion. I feel as though I can see their pulse, though they breathe no air. Truly, they frighten me. They enclose me without trying, with jagged rocks to deter escape through them. They are my protectors, the giver of all life. Their rivers feed a thousand like myself. I fear them nonetheless, an animal-like response to things beyond comprehension, their sheer size and weight impossible to truly understand . In their shadow, I am infinitesimally small.
When you see someone die, they get permanent squatter’s rights in your brain. Look, I’m no hardened killer, death was never my preferred profession. It was never just work for me. It was always personal.
I had shot someone in the shoulder. He had come to my house. Mafia guy. I had debts, he was collecting. Apparently, he had debts, too.
“Finish me off.” He said, gritting his teeth.
He hadn’t suspected to me to use a weapon. Unfortunately for him I was more than a little angry, and he had brought a bat. I knew I had a solid line of legal defense. I had let him in, told him I was going to get the money, and then shot him from a safe distance. Who’d they believe, a mafioso or me?
“Why? I’m sure the authorities have already been called-”
“Do it, or they’ll use my family as leverage. Please.”
“I’m not going down on a murder charge.”
“Fine. Just hand me a knife. You can do that, at least?”
“Are you su-”
I took a cloth out from on top of the counter and used it to grab a knife from the rack. I handed it to him.
He had been shot in the left shoulder, so he grabbed with his right hand. Then he stabbed it right into his stomach.
And that was it. He was dead. He wasn’t the first person to die in front of me. The cops came and took me away. Soon enough, I was out scot-free. That didn’t solve the whole “no money” problem though, and now I had a butthurt mafia looking for revenge. Continue reading “Memoir of a Hitman: Random Scene #3”
As soon as I figured out what my writing style really was, I was a bit disappointed. Really, the things I wrote before figuring this whole fiction thing out were far more… “stupidly optimistic” about themselves. Like, of course I can write with this strange gimmick, why not? Now, I’d shudder, knowing such things rarely work well, at least for me. Of course, I still experiment, but not in the broad strokes that I used to. When you don’t know any better, you make some very interesting failures.
So, I did it, right? I developed something of a style, a distinct voice of my own. I should’ve been ecstatic, but I wasn’t. I had taken too much (probably undue) pride in my wild experimentation. It hurt my pride to find that I had “settled down”, as it were. What do writers do when they realized they’ve written themselves into a rut without having written all too much at all? I had, and still have, no clue.
Most writers I’ve met are hopelessly self-critical. Or they were in possession of massive egos. I came to the hypothesis that if you wrote very well, you probably were someone worth avoiding in real life. As such, I have no intention of asking them anything. Still, having friends become so familiar with your style to the point that upon their first reading of a story they say “it’s definitely something you wrote” is deeply, unreasonably maddening. It ruined my long-held illusion that I wrote everything under the sun, that each piece was utterly unique from the rest. So, as a writer, I’m guessing I lean on the “massive ego” side of things.
I’d love to make this the start of some motivational piece, but I can’t. I still don’t know much of anything. As for why I’m posting this here, I guess it’s feasible that someone could relate. Doesn’t do me much good sitting on my hard drive. Anyway, I fully plan on at least spacing out these rambles, hopefully with stories in-between.