Morbid angel by jassal

Looking back at the day seems like a million different images reflected from the face of a broken mirror, hell at least this cigarette feels good. A slow wind starts picking up the dust and loose papers lying in the alley, playing with them, caressing them, lifting them, toying with them and then leaving them, abandoned in another darkened spot in this cold night, a little like my life. Smile, take the last drag, stub the butt under the heel of the shoe, trudge towards the metro station. It’s been a long day…

I don’t really know when it started; the proverbial spark that leads to the arsonist’s smile or was it a burning bush revealing its form to the prostate ascetic? I don’t know. All I know is that I have had enough. The working late hours, staring at the screen of my computer in my little cubicle, working till all my ideas got exhausted, till my fingers hurt, till I could collapse. Nicotine and caffeine, my constant companions, the little adrenaline high they gave as I slaved on the terminal, working on a program some American company wanted. But wait that wasn’t bad, what really hurt was when next morning, the boss, the tyrant, would scream, insult me for everything I had done. I would hang my head, choke my tears and wish I was far far away…but reality has a way of catching up with you. I couldn’t take the insults any more, the pressure. I ravaged my body, lost weight, couldn’t eat or sleep. Work suffered. Then I decided, I had had enough, I decided to kill the tyrant.

The D day was today, I had got my hands on an old revolver from an army officer I had befriended, he was too drunk to notice when I stole it from the show case he had kept it in. He won’t notice, I’ll go and keep it back tomorrow. I had bunked today preferring to sit in bed, drink countless tasteless cups of Nescafe and smoke whatever cigarettes I could get hold off. The plan was simple, walk into the building (the security wont stop me, they know me, and hell that metal detectors a fake), go to the 7th floor, walk into his office and do the job. I could picture his face, when he saw the gun in my hand, angry at first, then realizing the inevitability of the situation, begging for his life. I would wait for a while, play with him, make him think there was hope, and then empty all six bullets in him.

I walked towards the metro station, revolver concealed in my bag; I took the blue line to the office. The evening sun was casting long shadows, making the building look like a monster of metal, concrete and glass. The guard looked at me, a familiar face behind large bushy mustache; I could see he was waiting for the shift to get over. I smiled at him and walked towards the elevators. Closing time, the elevator was littered with pieces of discarded paper smudged with a million shoe prints. I felt a sweat break as the elevator delivered me to the 7th floor. The office wore an abandoned look, lights out, with just the glare of lights from the neighboring building seeping through the blinds. The tyrants office lights were on, he was still in.

I walked towards his office, slowly and noiselessly making my way. I could see him through the big glass wall he used to watch us from. Something struck me, his office was littered with old half drunk coffee cups and overflowing ashtray, a butt smoldering from it. I could see his blood shot eyes, the eyes of a man far beyond driven, burnt out, to tired to go on. I could see a little of myself in him Then I saw his hands, he held a gun, a pistol, I saw him raise the shiny metal cylinder and put it to his mouth. I waited till I heard the bang when the tyrant splattered his brains on the wall.

They say saving a life is the best thing to do, it makes a man a saint. I just walked away, maybe this is my redemption, maybe not. I feel a sort of elation, a twisted happiness, I am a morbid angel….