Three Days Part 4
Some people, when they see a pen and paper, they think of writing, maybe drawing. Me, I’m thinking of a knife and kindling.
I guess I just interpret things differently from the way that normal people do. It’s always been like that, from that first glorious day when I was seven, the day that I bashed a deer’s head open with a large chunk of basalt rock that I found in a field.
I still have that rock, or rather a small piece of it, still speckled with dark deer blood from my first play date. I keep it near me all the time, the memory lying quiescent in my pocket and reminding me how much I love what I do.
There are subway tokens in my pocket and I’m thinking about how lovely they would be shoved into the eye sockets of the bum slumped on a stoop to my right, but today I need those little circles of bronze for my trip.
Normally I live in the country, away from the prying eyes of humans and close to animals that no one will miss. But not today! Today I come to the big city, with the big people and their big ideas and the big opportunities and the big fat kills that I get to enjoy for three glorious days of fun fun FUN.
So I keep the tokens in my pocket and try to fight down the urge, one that I will give in to soon. I reach past the coins and feel the rough stone ridged with little hard bumps of black beast blood; my fingers tremble in anticipation and the thrill of memory.
Some people, when they see a chunk of rock covered in dark drops of blood, they think of death, maybe murder. Me, I’m thinking of release.
In the city, THE CITY, there are endless advantages and chances and weapons, beautiful gory weapons that only I can see.
Dreamily running my fingers along an old chain-link fence, I’m thinking about how good it would feel to smash someone’s face into the metal, smash and smash again until their face is pockmarked by bruised black diamond-shaped scars and bleeding sores.
This city is a maze, and I feel like a rat sniffing for cheese as I navigate these wonderful avenues of destruction, looking for the entrance to the subway. I don’t like vehicles; I prefer to trust my own body for transportation, but here in the big city it’s not smart to go anywhere without a metal shield protecting you from the world.
From the subway I can get downtown, to the visitor’s center. That’s where most of my coworkers pick up supplies and lovely weapons for the upcoming slaughter. Oh wondrous word, slaughter, such a versatile term that describes the Three Days so aptly.
I won’t be purchasing any lovely weapons; waste not, want not, after all. I do need food and water that will last me and be otherwise unreachable during the fun that approaches like a speeding train. Guns and knives and bombs and things I won’t need. Just a stray rock, perhaps a pen, maybe an aerosol can and a lighter. Who knows?
And now I feel lost, like a sheep that’s lost its way in the big city. I feel nice, though. There are weapons here, there are people that can have those weapons end their lives. Contentment fills me at every step.
A bar comes up on my right, a little tavern. I like bars; one night at a bar, I remember how I waited until closing time, then took the bartender and broke his nose with a pint of some delicious dark lager. I threw him on the pool table and pierced his heart with the cue stick, watching fascinated as the wooden pole slid in between his ribs and brought forth a geyser of brilliant arterial spurts.
Seeing this bar makes me happy, brings back the memory. I move to open the door only to have it swing out from the inside.
It’s a tall, somewhat obese man in his late thirties. His shoulders are slumped and his hair is thin; overall a pale, paunchy and unhealthy-looking man. His head, however, appears to belong to an entirely different body. With skin at least two shades darker than the white claws emerging from his wrinkled coat’s sleeves and a pinched, almost gaunt cast in stark contrast to the beer belly constrained by ill-fitting clothes, his head gives the impression that something is very wrong with this man.
Yet I know those eyes, completely black orbs spinning in milky pools like they can’t be bothered to stop moving around his skull. Restless, toneless, dangerous.
Some people, when they see a man like the one in front of me, they think of violence, maybe a mugging. Me, I’m thinking that this is a friend.
Good memories are stirring in their beds, as I stare at this man. Good splashy VIOLENT memories as I remember exactly who this person is.
A smile begins to crawl across my face like a thousand newborn spiders emerging from a sticky egg sac of condensed webbing.
“Hi, Simon!”

  1. jeaccesmetini says:

    🙂 The natural photo of the new arrival, taken by Emma Tallulah’s dad,

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