I have done this so many times that remorse left me for good. With a club in my hand, a bloodshot eye, and a bloodstained club from my previous kills, I was straddling planet Earth with one sole purpose: to kill whoever deserved it. Club in the age of nanobots? The reason I chose and wield this ancient lethal weapon? Because a gun is too quick — you don't have time to watch your enemy suffer. You blow their brains out, giving them no time to think of the consequences of their action. You don't get to see your enemies shit their pants out of terror.
Then I saw a trigger-happy man, who thought other lives were a game to be played. I raced toward him at terrifying speed and smashed his hands as he tried to load his AK-47. I clubbed him again in the gut. He muttered something, but I couldn’t make it out over the clanging voice in my head.
I laughed at him — I don’t know why I laugh when I am angry. He seemed to be pleading, but the bloody voice inside my head drowned out whatever he was trying to say. My heart was as cold as the Arctic icecaps. I whacked his pleading hands. This time even the club was no longer fun. So I flung away the bloodstained club, stood over him, grabbed his neck, and choked the daylight out of him.
I pinned him to the ground and hammered my fist into his face. I kept pounding his face over and over like he was paying me to do it. His blood-bathed, ballooning face was a feast to my bloodthirsty eyes. Finally, when utter exhaustion slowed my pounding fist, I heard him say sorry. He said he was just doing what he was asked to do. He was trying to show me a photo from his pocket. I gave a damn because I didn’t come to him for bonding.
I didn’t want to pause and consider his plea. No — I had gone too far, and there was no turning back. I was not going to make this man perform hara-kiri; there was no honour in him to grant it. I asked him to bow his head. I picked up my club — it seemed lighter this time — and smashed his head until he stopped muttering. I had just bludgeoned another man to death.
Suddenly it dawned on me: I was not alone. A little girl in a white robe had witnessed the scene. She was shedding tears. I didn't know for whom she wept. She was crying — so sad. But there was simply no time to give a damn for anyone’s tears.
I brought out my Cuban cigar and lit it with my Black Label Dictator. As nicotine burrowed deep into my brain, I began to simmer down. I took a deep breath, relishing the smell of fresh blood from someone I had never seen before.
I lay down and looked up heavenward; everything about it seemed so surreal. I was just about to collapse into oblivion when the child walked toward me. I was startled and ordered her to leave me alone. She came and felt my icy heart. She told me I was only seeing things through a glass darkly, and that someday I would understand things perfectly.
I was too exhausted to argue. Then she held my hands and cried; I cried too. I didn't know why I was crying — crying at my own helplessness? Whatever it was, I had to deal with the idea of coming home with no one to welcome me.
Before I shut my eyes and fell into a deep slumber like a log, I gave a faint cry: Why? The cries will continue to echo just like they have, ever since time began, and will continue to echo as long as men live….
#My2017 piece
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