Vis Viva

"Energy is neither created nor destroyed. It changes from one form to another"
                                                                  - Law of Conservation of Energy


The seconds expecting a breakdown at the door was as painful as the bullet lodged in his gut. His breathing was heavy and uneven. He knew there was no escape from here, but the killer in him was half mad at the kind of end his assassin's life was coming to,a bullet from a rookie's gun. He thought he would go in a much grand way, like after a long fight sequence similar to a Tarantino movie or at least after a few rounds of shots fired, using up all the clips he had, the anticipation of a shot, hitting the target, feeling the heat of the gun, sweat in his skin, and finally give up to the bullets that would sieve him. He wanted be gone a legend after an intense gun fight. This, was pathetic. Damn the rookie cop with the unsteady hands. He ruined his "Glorious Exit".

His profile was impressive.More than two dozen hits, all clean with nothing tracing back to him or the ones who wanted the dead, dead. He was the best. He was the unknown and unseen strike that got you out. He was off the grid and it was as if he never existed. That's what he believed until he found the trace and now he was cornered, literally , at some random room in some random floor of some random  building, waiting for his Rain of Bullets. He had not one regret with his life. He was powerful. The scythe that reaped the lives. He knew nothing about the lives of the ones he had slayed and he didn't care for them. Yet with the final grains of his sand clock slipping down, he thought he would feel remorse, for all the lives he had claimed, the tears he was accountable for, the looks of terror, the pleas of mercy, the foul stench of death, and the vacantness that filled their eyes afterwards.

As he heard the hard soles closing around him, he recalled his every kill. From the very first to his recent one. He was proud of some of his work and thought he could have done much better at some others. The money, the life, the comforts that came with the blood, all brought a small grin. He was good at what he did no matter how evil it was. He could hear the voices now. It took them full two minutes to figure out the room he was in. "Good call Sherlock.Was it the blood trail that gave away?", he guffawed. They were taking positions as they closed in on the door. He felt it. He was there, the state at which his victims felt right before he made his kill. Death's cruel hand crushing down with a side of helplessness and a generous serving of fear. But, unlike them, he was not afraid of dying. He knew it would all come to this one day. His heart rate quickened, his body was drenched in his sweat, blood all around him. That damn bullet in his gut.

The door burst open ,a dozen black suits stormed in. All guns pointing at him. At this point, he was so vulnerable that the rookie who shot him can get over with this with an old musket. There was no need for twelve semi automatics pointed at his chest. They were making snide comments about how a "celebrated" assassin like him had ended up huddled in a corner like a stinking coward. He had a few witty comebacks, but the pain had broken the threshold and it was to the point that he was looking forward to the end. He wanted them to get over with it. Yet they kept talking. His consciousness was not slipping but pain kept clawing at his life and the blood didn't stop seeping. At last it happened, the black suits shot him several times as he thought they would as he made a move. A slight motion, that's all it took for his life to come to an end. His glorious life as the master of death. As the shots were fired, finally the thought came to him.

 What if?

It happened so quick he hadn't had the time to catch a breath. He knew he was crying out loud, but didn't know why. He heard strangers around him. There was a women sobbing somewhere around in the vicinity. He felt running water and a soft towel followed. He felt was being handled like a small doll. Suddenly he heard the sobbing women up close. He had finally stopped crying and ever so slightly opened his eyes. A worn out women and a balding man, of gigantic proportions were looking at him. They were laughing and crying at the same time. She mouthed something he couldn't comprehend to. It dawned on him, finally, and this thought came to him.

"Oh its on".

P. S. This is totally inspired. My own words but a borrowed idea.

The Day She Quit..!!

She sat staring at the bright screen and it stared right back at her with nothing. It drove her mad. She walked out of her cell that she shared with 4 other fellows, who were gifted enough not to plow through on the last day of the week. She didn't mind their absence. There were very few souls that inhabited her adjacent cells which was sheltered under a long holding made of thick glass and cheap steel. She identified herself at the first glass door and again at the second metal door to walk to the outer less polished corridor. Her fingers absently traced the cold metal railings of the corridors as she walked to the box in the shaft that sailed her down from the third level. The rough stone walkway led her out of her metal cage that was oddly shaped like a bird. A giant,ugly,steel cage bird.

Everything around her screamed of conformity. The neutral shades may give out an aura that this means business but it clearly shouts to the lot here, "Comply and you shall believe that you are thriving". It reminded her of the colours of the shackles that had clasped her souls. She is one of them. She has been one of them for four long summers and four mildly cool winters. She had the coin, not complaining at that front, but this is not who she is. She is a free spirit. She wondered when she was tamed and it scared her. It scared her a lot.

She walked to the eatery to get something to quench her thirst and settle the the rumblings of her heavy breakfast. Her black stole took the direction of the wind. She tried to curb the garment but failed miserably at the act, so much she let it dance in the air. There was no one around anyway to judge her modesty for she had let her stole fly around. She looked down at her dress. Black with white and brownish green threading all over. Her friends mocked that this dress of hers looked like a thousand crows had shat on it. She didn't like the comment much as this was one of her favourites, but coming to think about it now, it does looks like crow shit. She smiled. Something that hardly came up these days.

As she walked there were less din than the other days of the week. She grasped none. It was all white noise around her. She was able to distinguish them though. A power provider's grunts, a mason's strikes, a loud girl's high pitch laughter, a few distant musical notes, the kitchen noise from that other eatery on her way, the splash of water from the green hose, held by a garden man in green clothes watering green leaves that were there apparently for no good reason. They were supposed to appease the mundanity of the cages, but steel grey and bottle green were never the colours of excitement. She heard all the noise but failed to pay any heed to them. She was going deaf to the life around.

The eatery that served her needs was three steel cages afar. She kept her head bowed. Not in submission but in curiosity. She saw the stones laid on the walkway. As a child, she used to measure her strides so that she did not step on the edges of the stone, something she always did with so much involvement that her head found her forerunner's arse many a times. Yet she did it. In her every walk. In all her journeys. But somehow she had stopped measuring her strides. She wondered why. It was just a queer habit that she had lost with time, like most of the things she enjoyed doing. She thought she would do it now. But the walkway stones were longer and it would look foolish to walk with long strides that even involved a few hops. There were not many around, yet she wouldn't do it. She hated being held back.

Her quencher was a brown effervescing drink that neither quenched her thirst nor settled her stomach. She walked back to her bigger cage, took the box up, then to the corridor and  then to her glass holding and then walked back to her cell after identifying at the two doors. She was a bit nervous to bring the quencher to her cell, as the guards were intolerant to anything edible in there. But her cage was not well guarded that day. May be the safety compliance of her steel cage was laid back on the last day of the week.
She realized her fear had stemmed out of her bent back.
So bent, she was even afraid to look up at anything around her.
So bent she let her life waste away staring at the ground.
So bent she thought her mind was rusting to normality.
So bent she forgot her last free opinion.

 She went back to her staring. Her relentless, pointless staring at the brightness in front of her.

That's when she heard a scream from within.