Leaving the room that he had now deemed his personal torture chamber, he sought refuge beside a window. Beauty kissed his eyes with a million stars...all of them tranquil in their orb.
There is so much chaos, he thought peering out of his window. There is so much death contained within this...peace. How can beauty like this tolerate such? He wondered silently.
Life was such a fragile thing--but a thing he felt he could never fully respect. His intent, however, was not one was disrespect. People these days seemed to sell their value on the streets with acknowledged casualty. How was it that even something as minor as simple Human respect could be afforded?
Religiously, he pulled a pen from his pocket and gracefully bent down to retrieve a thin book from its refuge beneath his chair. This book contained his heart, and so he fondly called it his 'book of thoughts'.
He felt that when there was no one left to trust, alternatives were a forced option. It was unhealthy to never express yourself.
Shifting until he was comfortable he began to write...
Staring at his reflection two tranquil green eyes peered back. They gazed into a soul that seemed emotionless. Yet, they managed to rage with human feeling that lingered just beyond the frail grasp of ordinary emotion.
He winced as he removed the bandage on his forearm. Beneath the soiled fabric was a wound woven closed with jagged stitches. They had been a quick fix to an unfortunate mishap. Carefully, he swabbed antiseptic over the wound--if it had not been for his tolerance of pain he would have cried out in agony. The wound was badly infected; for now an antiseptic was the most he could manage for its treatment.
I've managed to hurt myself again. The wound is severe so I may need to seek treatment. Unfortunately, I do not have time to bother with such things right now. My wound will have to wait. Time is never something that can affordably be wasted.
I killed a man today. He was just another death in the cause of this endless fight. My fight. Yet, I'm positive he was fighting for a cause he believed in...after all, he gave his life for it. I can't help but wonder if I had died, would he have written or even thought of me? Would my death have plagued his thoughts? Or was he stone? A person that was touched by death and yet oblivious to its finality.
I can't stop myself from wondering how much longer this war will continue. How many more will die by my hand? I feel as if I am two people sharing one mind...one heart...but two wills. One side thrives on the fight and uses my perfectionist nature--making me ruthless. At the same time, the other side employs my desire to achieve the impossible. Peace. I wonder if that word still stands for the meaning it once upheld.
Peace and honor once went hand in hand. Nowadays, I'm not even sure people know what peace really is. They all have their own ideas. Still, I feel like a hypocrite that dreams of what he denies. How is it that I can crave peace and still kill? I do not have a tendency to get angry, and hate is not a thing I allow myself to claim. Usually, I can control myself quite well. When I was young, I bored he other children who attempted to harass me. Perhaps their "boredom" hid an intimidated fear. At the time, I did not care.
I killed that man looking right into his eyes. He stared at me, up to his last moment, with a hatred unlike any I have ever seen. What was it that fuelled him to hate in that way?
He sat for a moment, gazing out at the stars.
"Who will I kill next?" He asked the stars.
But the stars only sparkled with a deadly beauty in response.