The Sad Man
He slides his fingers into his pocket. He feels the thin disc nestled there – a talisman, his good – luck charm. A ban the bomb badge – a gift from Dani a lifetime ago.
His fingertip finds its sharp pin. He pushes, letting it press deep into the skin until there is a tiny bead of blood. A reminder of actual pain. It is time.
He walks those final steps slowly, with great dignity. At the door he stops for a last – minute inspection of himself. His uniform is immaculate; it is important to show respect. At home he has a full – length mirror. It stands on the floor, allowing him to see exactly how presentable he is, how his uniform fits, the creases, the shine on the buttons, how clean his shoes are – but it does not show his head. He does not like to look at his face in the mirror. He uses an electric shaver, part guess – work and part practice, and every week goes to the barber for a professional shave with a cut – throat razor. That’s just how it goes.
He looks at his watch, just a few seconds. He never makes a call before 8 a.m. Her name is… her name was Chelsea Elizabeth Taylor. She was seventeen years old when she ran away from home a month ago. Now she is dead. He counts down the final few seconds in his head. It is 8 a.m. He reaches for the doorbell. In a few seconds he will rain a plague down on this house. He is the Sad Man. […]