Run like fuck, hide, rekill when there is no option. Day after day, week after week, until I finally make that one little error that gets me torn to pieces just slowly enough for me to avoid going immediately into shock.
The best I can do is end up right where I am now: Tired, dirty, mildly dehydrated. Lonely. Scared. The worst part is the uncertainty. I envy those prisoners on death row who knew that they were going to be executed, and even knew the date and time. Nice and clean. Shot, poisoned to sleep, electrocuted. All preferable to my sentence of surprise eviceration. I feel like every moment, I’m living under a pardon from the Governor that could be revoked at any second.
The sword of Damocles. I know exactly what that means now. I guess it’s really no different than it was Before. You never knew when death was going to walk up to you and stick a knife in your ribs, or sprinkle cancer in your colon. Maybe we just perfected the illusion that the Grim Reaper wasn’t our constant companion, waiting for us to exhale one last time before introducing himself. So we danced and sang and got stoned, because dying was something that happened to other people. Now, the illusion was impossible to maintain. The Grim Reaper was everywhere in bodily form, snapping at us from the shadows, stinking up the air with its fetid aroma, its rotten buttocks sitting on the throne from where mankind used to reign.
I always keep that one bullet, just in case. Just in case I’m not fast enough, or clever enough, or lucky enough to keep one clumsy step ahead of the rotting Reapers. Maybe I won’t wait until the last second when I’m looking into those stone-cold, unseeing eyes perched atop a broken neck or set within a decayed hole where a face used to be.
Maybe I’ll decide when, where, and how that pardon gets revoked. Maybe it will be here, now, with that last bullet.
Too tired, too tired to think about being depressed. I’m on the roof of that strip center I started scavenging a few weeks ago. The air is cool, the sky is clear, my belly is full of cocktail sausages and canned corn. Maybe I’ll just sleep.
That bullet will be here in the morning…