LONELINESS OF A CONTRACT KILLER
By Neel Anil Panicker
They say it gets lonely at the top.
I don’t know about such mumbo jumbo philosophical bull shit, but I do know that the air gets rarefied every time I climb this high.
Yeah, and for that reason, any reasonable man would wear a jacket, a cardigan, or at least even a full sleeved shirt here.Not me, though!Nah!!!
I don’t want no cover, no fortification. Nay, that’s not my scene. I don’t feel the cold, don’t shiver, my limbs don’t shake, the fingers don’t tremble.
Why should they? They shouldn’t; they never have. Not when I have blood on my hands.
Yes, you heard that right. I smell blood. Hot, warm, gurgling blood. Like it’s just off some faucet, shining large poppy drops of waters coming off a thousand tiny pores, bursting out in a scintillating 360 degrees arc, watering liquid brilliance on terra firma from entry feet high.
Hey, all this goes over your head? Sounds like crap, is it? Well, can’t blame you.
I mean how would you know?
How would anyone, for that matter, know?
I mean how would anyone but a killer know what it’s like to wake to, go to sleep with, and live and breathe every single nano second with smell, taste, touch, sound and hearing of blood—human blood.
Blood spilled on the streets, in a crowded Sunday market, on a lovely May day bright summer morning, on the dead of night, on a warm bed made even more warmer by the warmth of a lover’s lust filled love splashed heavenly kiss.
Anyone—but a killer.
After all, it takes a killer to empathize with another.