"It is over"
These were the final words he heard, yet the first ones that ever rung true to his ears. As the edge of the blade caught the sun, he inhaled and shut his eyes. Staring at nothing. He fell still. Time was thinning but the seconds that lingered felt suspended, like a layer of mist without breeze.
And then it was over.
Before it could be explained. One motion defining a lifetime of inaction. Of mediocrity - a stepping stone to desperation.
What would he have thought? The man he used to loathe. That whipped his mind from within his skull. A well wisher from the outside.
I have these thoughts, or should I say, invent these thoughts, when I drag these empty bodies away. This familiar sparkling mile of razor wire, grows ever more boring. Meaning, or the illusion of it at least, is the mind’s favourite form of nutrition. So it knows best when a story goes stale. Which is all too often in this place.
I used to think it was all in the eyes, before I found myself in this line of work. It took me to see a lifeless pair, to realise that is when meaning is shaped. All the potential definitions waiting to solidify, a dictionary with all the words changed to one. Death.