"I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds"- the Bhagavad Gita

Even through the tinted glass, the flash was blinding. It penetrated every corner, every cranny, bathing the observatory in pure, terrible light. We all knew what came next.

I could hear the explosion from inside this “soundproof” room. It bounced from wall to wall, echoing across the dirty floor and past the small group of weary technicians. Debris battered at the walls and roof, dirt and smoke embalmed our world. The gaunt man at the front of the room smiled, slowly turning around as the noise faded away.

“Gentlemen, welcome to a new era”

Something in his eyes made me shudder. For a moment I saw it, the maniac behind the scientist. Something burned in his mind, and for a millisecond his voice was tinged with wicked laughter. My face tingled. I could hear my heart’s rhythm in my eardrums. As the dust lifted and the distinct, ominous mushroom cloud became visible, I knew what we had done.

We have become death’s scythe.

___________

The room was completely silent. There was no lively discussion, no congratulations. Men scribbled in their notebooks, sat dumbly, or stared into space. I looked at the wall. I could no longer bring myself to gaze on the fading remnants of the cloud. No one spoke. The group had fallen into a deathly, collective realization. The gaunt man, or the “Artist” as I shall call him, was the only one who seemed happy. He stared out the window into the smoke, his eyes fixed on the detonation site.

He was a pianist basking in applause after a brilliant sonata.

He was a man lost in his own creation.

I dared not disturb him.

The Artist paints with uranium and bones.