02-03-2015, 11:45 AM
Ayden and Sasha joked and Connor let them to it while he looked at the menu. Girl talk. And then Ayden's entire demeanor changed. Connor was instantly alert to the danger. When Sasha left Ayden pointed out the man at the other table. The tattoo was visible from here.
White hot rage liquefied his brain. Images flashed through his mind so fast they were only fleeting impressions, but each one left a layer, a deposit of emotion on his heart. Hayden's fevered hand in his, whimpers filling his ears. Raging impotence at being unable to save his son. Anger at himself. Crushing loss. It was his fault, his fault, he should have done something! Memory after memory, image after image, left its trace. And his rage at the Atharim burned hotter than it ever had. They let his son die. Made it impossible for Hayden to live. They had hunted them in St. Petersberg, tried to kill Ayden, his heart, to put her down like a dog. A little boy in front of him- brains and skull sprayed out across the snow, a mother and father's life suddenly destroyed in one single moment.
His guilt and hatred and rage was the core of a star, the weight of it doubling and doubling, again and again, exponentially, until like the dying star, collapsing in on itself, compressing down, down, ripping atoms apart like tissue paper, fusing nuclei, compressing and collapsing until finally the shockwave of this newly birthed energy tearing through the body of the star, blowing off the outer layers with a blast of pure energy that outshines a galaxy, burns brighter than a million billion stars, spending itself in one orgasmic release. And then, gases cleared, all that remains, at the core, spinning in the darkness, colder and denser than almost anything in existence, spins the now dead cold heart.
The quiet in Connor's mind was deafening. He was death itself. Moments had passed and only the man at the table existed, only his still beating heart sitting next to him.
"Stay here,"
he whispered. He watches the man, all the while devoid of emotion. He walks to the bathroom and enters a stall. He pulls the gun from the holster and slips it into his jacket pocket, finger on the trigger. He looks himself in the mirror and sees nothing.
He walks back out into the swell of conversation and light and festivity. He is a blackness drifting along the edges. He angles to come out and heads to the bar, behind the man. Moving quickly, he walks up to the man and presses the gun in his jacket against the man's shoulder. The tattoo seems to undulate and writhe as if trapped by a fork. From somewhere deep inside, words come to him deadly quiet, the whisper of steel. "Move over or you die."
Edited by Connor Kent, Feb 3 2015, 02:53 PM.
White hot rage liquefied his brain. Images flashed through his mind so fast they were only fleeting impressions, but each one left a layer, a deposit of emotion on his heart. Hayden's fevered hand in his, whimpers filling his ears. Raging impotence at being unable to save his son. Anger at himself. Crushing loss. It was his fault, his fault, he should have done something! Memory after memory, image after image, left its trace. And his rage at the Atharim burned hotter than it ever had. They let his son die. Made it impossible for Hayden to live. They had hunted them in St. Petersberg, tried to kill Ayden, his heart, to put her down like a dog. A little boy in front of him- brains and skull sprayed out across the snow, a mother and father's life suddenly destroyed in one single moment.
His guilt and hatred and rage was the core of a star, the weight of it doubling and doubling, again and again, exponentially, until like the dying star, collapsing in on itself, compressing down, down, ripping atoms apart like tissue paper, fusing nuclei, compressing and collapsing until finally the shockwave of this newly birthed energy tearing through the body of the star, blowing off the outer layers with a blast of pure energy that outshines a galaxy, burns brighter than a million billion stars, spending itself in one orgasmic release. And then, gases cleared, all that remains, at the core, spinning in the darkness, colder and denser than almost anything in existence, spins the now dead cold heart.
The quiet in Connor's mind was deafening. He was death itself. Moments had passed and only the man at the table existed, only his still beating heart sitting next to him.
"Stay here,"
he whispered. He watches the man, all the while devoid of emotion. He walks to the bathroom and enters a stall. He pulls the gun from the holster and slips it into his jacket pocket, finger on the trigger. He looks himself in the mirror and sees nothing.
He walks back out into the swell of conversation and light and festivity. He is a blackness drifting along the edges. He angles to come out and heads to the bar, behind the man. Moving quickly, he walks up to the man and presses the gun in his jacket against the man's shoulder. The tattoo seems to undulate and writhe as if trapped by a fork. From somewhere deep inside, words come to him deadly quiet, the whisper of steel. "Move over or you die."
Edited by Connor Kent, Feb 3 2015, 02:53 PM.