he listened to the voices, once again.
then he shot.
he pulled the trigger, slowly but firmly. he could see his victim’s face. he has thought of this moment for as long as he remembered. he knew it completely, by the second, by the centimetre. he has dreamt it. he lived for it.
it was power. killing hector was not only payment for an old debt, a family vengeance, but a moment of power. the power of killing a human being. the power of being able to murder, to steal a life, to end dreams, hopes, passions and fears in one second, as they never existed. as they never existed for him, anymore.
then, he felt his hand slightly trembling, the warm gun shaking. he realised the fear and the quivering, the anxiety. he realised he was afraid. he realised he did not feel mighty, powerful, omnipotent, as he foresaw it. the murder would not make him strong.
his eyes got watery. his legs shivered. his soul, his inner guts, started to tremble. he felt like puking.
he utterly saw it. as he killed hector, he saw he himself reflected in the futility of that death, in the ephemerality of his own life. he realised he was mortal, fragile, vulnerable, and that he would die one day, whether at the hands of his own enemies, those who will be him, or in a less respectable situation.
he felt, as the fear invaded every nerve and pore of his weightless body, silently, starting to disappear, inexorably. paradise lost…