Part VII


room where tension is gathered. they are quivering together, adrenaline fear spurring motion, action, instinct. a drawing apart not based on supremacy, but survival. the arrow will land. where will it strike in the midst of the dense foliage of the networked city? she crouches before him, poised for death, charging for the leap across the wire, sparking flashing movement into the unknown. her victim. invading his innards to let the hidden life spring into her mouth. revealed. consumed. a sacrifice to her emptiness, her need. her lost.
he is already dead. she lowers her gun. he is already dead. she had cocked her defining finger at him and saw the fear. she knew what it was to take life. to take power. to wait for the moment captured.
and he is just another nothing. he offers her
nothing.

a coffee table between them. issues of National Geographic. she places the gun, untensed, over the surface of a spouting volcano. traveler. tourist. no. she relaxes once again. i am here. living, breathing. looking at death. death there, looking back, shaking, changing. he, too, is relaxing. understanding. he traveled down the barrel sight of a gun and arrived back at his place, standing in the light on the rug. rain stopped. the liquid breathing of cars. her eyes, taking him in, casting him out. a pause. a period. the bullet never struck. it passed through her mind and he saw it moving away from her face. he opened his mouth and he breathed out and he knew that there was this. no escape. their sentence pushing him forward into a universe that never existed. he is free. he is blind. he breathes in. eye water falls from the slits of his eyes. “i’m sorry,” he murmurs. ” i’m sorry.” this is not a drama. this is a birth. she sits down and watches him.

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Author: manderson

I live in NYC.

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