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'We are more often treacherous through weakness than through calculation'. Sitting on this train, with every turn of the wheel I run this thought through my mind, and as the dark scenery in front unfolds itself, more and more becomes apparent.
I've watched people cry out from the darkness by my hand, howling out for their loved ones, spitting at me with curses. I've watched people die, eyes clenched shut with bygone horror, or still open, gazing blankly into mine. And then I've watched their silence, draped along their own beds with their makeup still on, or crashing to the floor a million miles from home, dirt across their faces. I've watched people escaping from life with a shaking gun held in my sweating fist, smelling the smoke as it flows from the barrel, tasting the retaliating blood as it spatters on my lips. So much chaos...so much agony... The scenery continues to unfold, and as it does the task ahead raises its fuming head, full of anger like Poseidon striking the ground with his trident. Death by my device will now be ART; the rolling rivers of clear blue tears...filthy blood trickling along the earth like red paint dribbling down canvas...bodies coiling and twisting so beautifully and so violently. Death is now and always will be my companion; it escorts me through my life and then manifests itself in my drudgery. I am the artist of death.
My eyes flick up towards the man sitting opposite me, to the left slightly, (medium length black hair, blue eyes, coarse black beard, average build), then I advert them towards the window again. The scenery is hurtling past rapidly now, too quickly to notice the intricacies of the world out there, only enough to see blurred trees blinking by. But that doesn't matter; my mind is far too set on trying to remember his facial intricacies (small scar above the left eye, nose jaunted to the left). But is it really him? I can't believe how close I am to him and I'm not striking now. It's getting easier to remember faces these days, my mind now seems to be so efficient in permanently etching the visages of my targets and victims into my thoughts and dreams that there seems little room for little else. Patience.