Repetition

Bang.

There is more to kill. There is always more to kill.

You would think you would be desensitized to the feeling already. Trigger under your finger. Tension as you pull. Bang. Another down. Another one erased from the world.

Sometimes they are monsters, mutated dogs with fangs sharp as spikes and saliva dripping like madmen's tears. These are the easiest to kill. The bullet pierces their emaciated flesh, they double over with a wet whine, and then they still. On the outskirts of Ebel's golden lamp-lit streets, the air rots their starved corpses.

Then there are the humans.

You wonder where they come from, these men sporting tight leather outfits and wide-brimmed hats and grins fierce as sharks. They rarely speak, only point and shoot, and you wonder where do they come from? They come in droves, in hundreds, like the spawn of Ebel's pollution. Or perhaps the smog has washed away their identities like the gray of smoke painting skin.

You would think you would be desensitized to the feeling already. They are just lives nobody wanted, lives thrown out to fend for themselves until starvation or disease encroached. Half-monsters, half-humans, they hardly count as sentient.

The numbness in your chest strangely feels like silence weeping.

Who are you to judge? You are not god.

Bang.

There is more to kill. There is always more to kill.

You would think you would be desensitized to the feeling already.


AN: Brought on by excessive stress from work, lol.

(9/22/12)