"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.
- 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.
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