Security

He took the knife and shoved it deep within the man's gut, such an easy feat, easier than he remembered, he had not killed anyone in a while, he had forgotten about how knives slipped through flesh, like scissors through paper, like this knife was made for this man's death. one and one the perfect match. The man didn't resist much, he had probably given up on life anyways he thought. The man slumped to the side, the blood spilling onto the concrete, filling up the cracks and trying to escape the body that had contained it for so long. He looked at his eyes which had stayed open unlike in the movies. What's your story old man? How did you end up here, bet you didn't see your life going in this direction, ending in such a fashion. Twists and turns, twists and turns. The air was cool, the moon high, he felt a little chilly, the breeze attacking his perspiration. He shivered, but he didn't know if it was the cold or the events that had unfolded that night. He brushed back his hair, running it through his fingers, one hand in his hair the other still cluthcing the knife. He breathed out deeply, the exhale visble against the backdrop of the alley. Industrial pipes and dark corners, towering buildings and ever darkening night. He leaned closer to the body and carved an s shape on his cheek, before plunging the knife into his chest, what little blood was left in him boiling to the surface of the wound. Rich reds of life exiting, he sliced down the man's leg, stopping when the blade hit bone, He soon grew bored and covered the body with a cardboard box he found in a dumpster. It wasn't the prettiest burial, but hey he didn't even know the guy. There were no words of solace, no service, he just covered him up and walked away. He got rid of the knife after walking several blocks. He shoved it into a storm drain probably around Redrun road, he didn't really look, he just knew it was far enough away for people investigating to not search there. It probably wouldn't be much of an investigation anyways, who cared about the vagrants, those poor people hobbling around the broken down streets, living broken down lives.
He arrived at his house and opened the door slowly, it gave it's creak as a way to say hello, and he stepped through into the living room. It was sparsley furnished, two old thrift store couches and a t.v. that still had knobs to change the channels. The floors were hardwood, making the room feel colder and maybe a little harder. He sat down on one the couches and leaned his head back while he closed his eyes. The thunderclouds were clearing up, that swirling darkness mixing with red rage had subsided, his hand began to shake a little but he ignored it, continuing to keep his eyes closed. He could almost see green again, the blackness clearing, the murkiness of his reality, temporarily contained within a clear box, he tucked it away in his mental file cabinet, he made sure to lock the drawer, he couldn't keep letting things like this happen. He opened his eyes and turned on his t.v., he only got three channels so he watched an infomercial about a glove that you could pick up hot items with, isn't that called an oven mit he thought? The hosts babbled on, their fakeness exuding from the small blurry screen, this is t.v. aimed at those in need of much more than a glove to handle hot food items. They should invent gloves to handle life, to grab hold of it and conquer it without getting burnt. He had seared hands from trying to grab a hold of what he felt he deserved. The heat forcing him to drop it all, shattering it on the floor, the pieces scatterd by the wind, and him left alone nursing burnt hands. Credit card debt commercials, places to submit inventions, western career college, these are not the ads of a healthy nation. He snickered at the creepy man who was trying to win his trust and his personal accident case. He felt bad for the people that these commercials might help, those night school nurses, art school cronies, submitting pastel pictures of apples and bowls. He was much better off he muttered as his eyes began to tear up. That night school nurse was making something of herself, that other voice said, what are you doing? Empty house containing, empty drawers, and an empty soul. Existing is not the same as living. Things aren't that bad...
He awoke for work stretching as he rose from his bed. He walked to his closet and grabbed his shirt, the badge catching the glint of the early sun, sparkling and making him proud. He always felt better in his uniform, so official, security, he was to provide security and protection. The company he worked for had several contracts across the town, he worked in the malls, or sometimes at one of their parking garages. Things could change daily. His life was not stagnant he said to himself as he laced up his black boots. When he arrived at work they gave him his post and he settled into his booth watching people as they scanned their badges and entered the building. He waved at people wishing them a good morning, they gave gracious smiles but he wondered what they thought of him. Some of them just ignored him, other were friendly but they would never invite him to come eat with them. It was like he barely existed, they streamed by, and how many knew his name, how many cared, they all had their own lives, no room for a security officer who had so much room to offer. The emptyness he could feel, but could never get anyone to fill....

gotta leave work