The day was gray and bleak, but he could feel his excitement building—the thrill of a kill. It wasn’t his first, he had killed many. Slaughtered them in their sleep, children clutching to their mothers, lovers jumping to protect one another. He couldn’t remember all of their faces, all of the people he had killed, but did it matter? Men, women, children, who died wasn’t important. They were dead now, it was for the better. The more that died, the closer he was to his goal.
He was on his way to a death sentence of a rebel who had led thousands of townspeople from the destruction of their city. Could he blame the people from fleeing? No, of course not, he had devastated their homes, their families, their lives. It was for the betterment of society. The people would understand in the end. Foreign books, readings, art; yes, they had to be destroyed too. It would cleanse them from what they had done. Every bloodline had to be destroyed, helping it not spread further.
He passed a store that had been blown to rubble. Dried blood covered the chunks of building, and a breeze suddenly blew an acrid stench in his direction. One of his men behind him vomited, and he himself had to hold back gagging. Limbs and bodies were scattered in the streets, small flames lapped at the edges of buildings and rubble. Shattered glass covered the sidewalks and streets, ripped curtains and drapes hung limp out of the windows, tattered edges, darkened, burned. Cleaning was the messiest process. He had to dig out all the dirt and grime before everything could be neat and orderly. He reached one of the few streets with people moving about.
Six of his men stood guarding a lone figure, kneeling on the ground. A hood covered the figure’s face. The rebel that was to be executed had created a lot of problems for him, evacuating people before attacks, aiding those who deserved to die, sabotaging the plans he had been working on for years and years. They took off the hood as he approached and stepped away. He leaned down and stared the figure in the face.
“And to think I was constantly deceived by a woman.” He spat in her face. He was met with defiant and angry green eyes. Her face was dirty and bloodied, but still cold and hard. She said nothing. “Have you anything to say before you die?” He straightened and pulled out his gun. She didn’t respond, and was very still, staring him right in the eyes. Her rebellious and bold gaze unnerved him. He glanced away and looked around the city street they were on. A brave little girl was picking through the rubble, looking for something she would not find. A mangy dog was sniffing the ground across from him, and it began eating something in the dirt. He looked back at the woman.
She was the cause for all his troubles. He raised his gun, pointing it at her head. Her eyes didn’t waver from his. He squeezed on the trigger. A loud bang came from the gun, but lasted for a short time. It was too short, no echo followed. Nothing happened. Everything was still and eerily quiet. He stared at her. She looked up at him, confused. He was confused. Lowering his gun, he looked around. The little girl was kneeling on the ground, hands over her ears, eyes closed tight as she silently screamed. She was still, unmoving. His men, around him, were still as well. They weren’t breathing, standing, motionless, like statues.
“Look!” The woman exclaimed, her finger pointing to the sky. He looked up, and saw a bird in midflight. Frozen and motionless in the air. He stood staring for a moment longer, and then realized the woman was moving away. He raised his gun again, and then he saw it. His bullet, hanging in the air in front of him, unmoving. The woman was looking for keys to her cuffs on his guards. “Hey!” He raised his gun. She looked up at him, and then continued, unlocking her cuffs, she simply turned and walked away. Lowering his gun in confusion, he stood motionless and bewildered.
Looking about him once more, he realized she was the only thing left in the world moving and he ran, shouting after her. When he reached her, she whirled around and spat at him.
“Don’t follow me!”
“Why did time stop?” he wondered mostly to himself, and then reached for her arm to stop her from turning away. She lashed out and kept walking away. “Where are you going?”
“Anywhere away from you!” she muttered, without turning around.
“Everything is frozen in time, what do you expect to do?” He asked, falling in step behind her. He felt vulnerable and afraid.
“Like I would tell you!” She snapped. “You are a cruel and heartless man, I’m sure the world is grateful to no longer have to see your face.”
He was taken aback. “What I am doing is for the people! It’s good for them, and soon they will see what is right and wrong. I have been showing them, purifying them!” The woman stopped walking. She turned around, looking shocked.
“Nothing you have done has helped anyone but yourself,” she snarled. “You murder and maim people, leaving them to die so you can take over more land. You have taught the people nothing but fear and anguish.” The man scowled, shifting uncomfortably, and the woman continued walking away. She stopped in front of a little grocery store, the windows were blown out, glass covering the sidewalk. She seemed calm suddenly. “Come with me,” she said.
The two walked for a long time. They had tried to steal an old truck on the side of the road, but it would not start. She led him out of the city. They walked for what seemed like days, stopping only a few times for rest and to eat some food they found in a crumbling home. The man’s feet ached as he stumbled over the rocky ground, and the rubble of the city.
“There it is,” the woman said suddenly. He squinted, looking into the distance. He could see the outlines of what appeared to be tents, hundreds of them across the horizon. As they approached, he could tell that everything was frozen there too, because of the eerie silence. He saw little children sitting along the sides of tents. They weren’t playing, just sitting and staring at something he couldn’t see. An older woman sat on a large rock, holding a needle and thread, staring at her hands as if she were expecting them to move. Next to her sat a young man, his face was wet with tears, smearing the dirt on his cheeks. The woman led him into an aid tent.
“Why are you taking me here?” he asked.
“I want you to see what you have done,” she responded. She showed him to the first mat, where a man lay, burns covered his body, and he was missing one of his hands. He knelt down next to the man. “Hold his hand.” The woman said.
The man’s immediate response was to leave the tent, but he reached out his hand and touched the burned man’s remaining hand. He never felt the man’s flesh. Instead, he was pulled away from what he saw, and he now sat at a dining room table, surrounded by his family. His wife was laughing, and his children were giggling. Hung on the walls were family photos and crayon drawings in frames. This is not my family, thought the man. He stared at them and realized it was the burned man’s family. Suddenly, the windows of the room blasted inward. Fire flooded the room. He saw his children burning, and his wife screaming.
He pulled away from the burned man quickly, horrified. He had felt the burned man’s pain. Not his physical pain, his internal pain. The love for his family, and the pain of losing them. He was trembling. Pulling himself together, he looked back at the woman.
She was slowly walking to the next mat. Suddenly curious, he followed her. A young boy of ten years was laying on it, he had a nasty gash on his head and his arm was wrapped. He reached out and touched the boy’s hand. He was in a little store, snooping around the shelves. “I’m going to find you!” he said with a grin, sneaking around the corner. He saw a small figure flash by next to him, and heard a giggle. He rounded the next corner. “Roar!” he yelled and picked up a little girl, whirling her around. She was his little sister. She shrieked and laughed happily. The atmosphere made him want to smile, and he remembered times when he had played with his own sister. The feeling ended as a man walked in. He was carrying a gun, and the little boy grabbed his sister, he roughly pushed her into a nearby freezer box, the only place he could hide her. He turned around just as the gunman came into the same isle. He started firing. The boy screamed.
The man wrenched his hand away. He was trembling, and realized he was weeping. “That little boy has been looking for his sister, he yells her name as he sleeps. He fears for her life. He does not know if she lives,” the woman said, behind him. He wiped his face.
“I know where she is,” he said determinedly, as he stood up. He strode straight out of the tent. The woman followed, silently. He walked all the way back to where time had first frozen, not stopping once. When he reached his destination he was standing in front of the little girl. She was still kneeling in the rubble, hands over her ears. The woman came up next to him, exhausted from walking so far and long.
“Is that her?” She asked.
“Yes.” Was his only reply. The man stood thoughtfully for a moment. Then turned to the woman. “Thank you, for showing me what I did not understand.” He backed away from her, and went back to where he had fired his gun. He looked down at the bullet. Then, very gingerly, he kneeled, and moved in front of it. The echo from the gun rang out, and the man fell to the ground, dead.