Me & My Gun
Posted: Thu Dec 13, 2018 10:31 pm
That felt good.
He had never been outgoing. He was going to die a virgin, he figured. That didn't make him feel much. Resignation, more than anything else - this was what he was born to do. Ahmad Moradi had been born so he could sire Matt Moradi, so Matt Moradi could kill. Who was he to argue against that? Everything in his life lead up to this. Every single slight, argument, every single thing before this - it was meaningless. He was never going to have any children. He never really wanted children, anyways. He was better suited to taking other people's children away from them. Four people. Wade Cartwright. Benjamin Lichter. Aiden Slattery. Serena Waters. They were born into this world purely so he could kill them. That was what they were there for. Whatever plans they had were ultimately meaningless.
He climbed the stairs. Thinking about how Aiden did it same as he did made him smile.
He reached the top and looked to the sea. So beautiful. Slowly, he sat down, looking at the gun lying in his lap. It, too, was beautiful. He ran his hand along the long, slender barrel. One pull and he could change so many lives. Not just the receiver. All of their family, friends. They would know that he had killed them. They would belong to him.
Before coming here, he'd never really believed much in fate. He believed in himself. He still did. He believed - and he believed this deeply - that he was going to win. That the last shot would be fired by him, and then he would finally be alone in this place. No more screaming. No more crying. No more. And that would be more beautiful than any sea, any rotting insane asylum, any gun.
Part of him idly recognized that he wasn't thinking rationally. He was supposed to be a rational, moral person. His parents had raised him that way. He figured he was a rational, moral person before coming here. He wasn't. Everything he'd done here made him realize that absolutely nothing mattered aside from winning. You are either born to die a loser or you are born to die a winner. He wanted to be a winner.
He stood up, going towards the edge, lifting the gun up with him. He stood near the edge of the bell tower and thought of Aiden falling off, dying. He thought about Serena. All loose ends, gone. Dead. He ran his hand up and down the barrel of the gun. Quickly, he fired off one shot, towards the ocean. He stepped away from the edge, lowering the gun, moving towards the staircase.
He climbed down it. Aiden never had the chance to do that. He frowned, for a moment.
((Matt Moradi continued elsewhere.))
He had never been outgoing. He was going to die a virgin, he figured. That didn't make him feel much. Resignation, more than anything else - this was what he was born to do. Ahmad Moradi had been born so he could sire Matt Moradi, so Matt Moradi could kill. Who was he to argue against that? Everything in his life lead up to this. Every single slight, argument, every single thing before this - it was meaningless. He was never going to have any children. He never really wanted children, anyways. He was better suited to taking other people's children away from them. Four people. Wade Cartwright. Benjamin Lichter. Aiden Slattery. Serena Waters. They were born into this world purely so he could kill them. That was what they were there for. Whatever plans they had were ultimately meaningless.
He climbed the stairs. Thinking about how Aiden did it same as he did made him smile.
He reached the top and looked to the sea. So beautiful. Slowly, he sat down, looking at the gun lying in his lap. It, too, was beautiful. He ran his hand along the long, slender barrel. One pull and he could change so many lives. Not just the receiver. All of their family, friends. They would know that he had killed them. They would belong to him.
Before coming here, he'd never really believed much in fate. He believed in himself. He still did. He believed - and he believed this deeply - that he was going to win. That the last shot would be fired by him, and then he would finally be alone in this place. No more screaming. No more crying. No more. And that would be more beautiful than any sea, any rotting insane asylum, any gun.
Part of him idly recognized that he wasn't thinking rationally. He was supposed to be a rational, moral person. His parents had raised him that way. He figured he was a rational, moral person before coming here. He wasn't. Everything he'd done here made him realize that absolutely nothing mattered aside from winning. You are either born to die a loser or you are born to die a winner. He wanted to be a winner.
He stood up, going towards the edge, lifting the gun up with him. He stood near the edge of the bell tower and thought of Aiden falling off, dying. He thought about Serena. All loose ends, gone. Dead. He ran his hand up and down the barrel of the gun. Quickly, he fired off one shot, towards the ocean. He stepped away from the edge, lowering the gun, moving towards the staircase.
He climbed down it. Aiden never had the chance to do that. He frowned, for a moment.
((Matt Moradi continued elsewhere.))