Shooter

I've been drinking and the cold metal of my colt 45 feels good in my hands. It's police issue, that's what the guy at the pawnshop said, and that's cool. I wear a long trench coat, and that is cool too. Tonight, I'm going to kill people.

They’re going to ask why.

You could say its because my dad was an alcoholic deadbeat who abused me. Or that it's because my mom is a prostitute. but neither of these things are true. They’re just normal middle class people, just like me. I get good grades. I even have a couple of friends. We’re not too close, but we hang out sometimes.

No, tonight there is no reason. I'm cold inside, so my hands don't sweat. I can feel the gnawing darkness eating away at me. I just need to feel... cool. And seeing the blood, hearing the screams, seeing my face on the news.

That’s enough for me.

“There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations - these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub and exploit - immortal horrors or everlasting splendors. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously - no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption.” - C.S. Lewis