11:34 p.m. 2004-05-25
Investigation in this dark confusion, running through empty streets that seem all too crowded. Its like being caught in a dream and waking to realize the dream was a memory of a nightmare. When opening your eyes is the beginning of another day in hell, nothing goes bump in the night anymore. A waking schitzophrenia that was eating away at my soul, like the hounds of hell themselves. Maybe they couldn't wait for me to die first. He was there, looking through my eyes, hiding in mirrors. I could see him in the way they looked at me when i passed. I didn't know who he was, except at night when everything was perfectly, horribly clear. Headlong through these streets he was always just a step behind, laughing and telling me it wasn't worth it. Every morning, when i rolled out of bed, he was there, just behind every door, urging me to just give up. So i did.
It wasn't what i thought it would be. Wasn't what he expected either. The shadows weren't complete, everything just blurred together into a haze of red and black and gray. Half the time i was numb, just going through the motions while he shouted his triumph to the world. The rest of the time i was too tired to care what happened. Those days were a maze of whiskey and smoke, raindrops and bloodstains. The only thing that was clear was that i wasn't alone anymore; he was there.
He left a trail of bullets where ever he went. Bullets and torn bodies, nothing else mattered to him. And me, i was no better. He ruined their bodies; i wrecked their souls. The cold steel of the gun in his hand was never any worse than the words that came forth so easily. And in the numbness there wasn't any guilt, just the steely reflection of mutilated lives and lifeless eyes. My life was led at the edge of the glare of oncoming headlights; a step away from fading away, a step away from being lit up like some avenging angel and then being blown away. I don't think either one of us was in control.
Like a headlong rush through a gutted building, it couldn't go on forever. It was inevitable that we'd run into something. We had no chance of getting away; maybe that was the appeal of it all. The night the world ended was so anticlimatic, it was just a blur of shattered wood, the spit of gunfire and blood. It was just like so many other nights. There were crimson streaks on splintered walls; I could hear the sound of shouted commands and the screams of mangled men. The air was heavy with the scent of metal; steel guns and blood everywhere. It was nothing more than a rush of movement, death and adrenaline, and then it was over and we were standing in the rain, hands in the air. The air in my lungs had never felt so precious, so fresh and beautiful.
That was my last night of freedom.
Maybe it was for the best, in fact i'm sure it was. They took pictures of me, of us, and printed stories on the front page. There was a case i'm sure, i don't remember any of it. None of it mattered any more. When that night ended, everything was done, there was nothing left to worry about, nothing more to accomplish. Since that last night, i was at peace. I am now.
They say that i'll be killed for the things that i've done, and that's something i can live with, figuratively. Seems we caused a lot of trouble, and the lives we ruined can never be brought back, even if we were killed a douzen times over, nothing would change. But people need to do something, that's what he always said. I guess he was right, those weeks we spent together, those months of frenetic action; it made me immortal. In that short time, i lived my whole life, and i'm content. I was hungry and through him i was sated.
But i can't help feeling sorry for the ones who never fought back, who never lived at all.
If they want to take me, then its my time to go i guess. But they're just taking another life, like i did so many times. It won't change anything, won't bring anyone back from the dead. Maybe though, it'll wake someone up