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There ain't no more cowboys, only men with violent hearts
Topic Started: Jun 17 2013, 02:27 AM (2,315 Views)
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the bass and the tweeters make the speakers go to war
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When Hansel stopped shooting, leaving the two others running for the treeline in a blind dash, the numbness filled his limbs with lead. He felt the vibration quivering in his shoulder, the tension in his jaw. Rolling both offending body parts, he closed the final steps between him and the body of Daniel Whitten.

The boy had landed face up, eyes open wide and mouth slacked in shock. Hansel allowed himself five seconds to simply stare, eyes roaming around the face, taking in the pale complexion, wide eyes, and the hole drilled through the temple. Five seconds to commit a victim to memory.

When his time was up, he reached down to Daniel's bag, turned away from the body, and crouched.

With shaking hands, he lay his rifle beside the two bags, transferring the items in Daniel's pack to his own in a robotic, methodical fashion. He didn't blink when he put the whip in his duffel; not the protein bars, not the medkit. When his duffel was full and Daniel's was empty, Hansel took the dead boy's bag, turned it upside down, and lay the opening over Daniel's face.

He told himself it was for peace for the young boy, making it harder for the animals to get at his eyes for a snack. He told himself this, even as Daniel's slack eyed stare bored into his mind, accusing, disgusted.

When Hansel walked away, his duffel filled with spoils and his rifle slung around his shoulder, his breathing was too fast, his movements too quick and panicked, and the bile in his throat too strong and tangy as it rose alongside his self revulsion.


((Hansel Williams, Decathect))
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