as written by Ronin
In the shadows of a run-down high rising flat, a window was open. Thick smoke swam around the room, the tendrils of musky heat fighting a losing battle against the chill seeping in from the night. From the shadows, the thin end of a cigarette bud glowed ominously, briefly giving the blacks and grays of the dilapidated apartment a vibrant flash of red. A long, satisfied sigh followed.
“Into each liiiiiiiiiife some raaaaaaiiiinnn must faaaaaaallll…” the smoker sang softly to himself, his oiled-leather voice as rich and plumed as the smoke steaming from nostrils. “But too much is falliiiiiingg in miiiiiinee…” He lifted the embering paper to his thick, pouting lips and draws a deep drag. The ensuing red only briefly outlined the hard, meaty edges of his face, the wide apple-core bridge of his nose, the thick scruff foresting his jaw. He reached over and tapped the cigarette ashes into a small glass bowl at his side. He glanced out the nearby window, coursing up and down the near-vacant streets below.
He grunted, shaking his head and thumbing the cigarette back into his lips. He hated this room. It was cold, much too cold to have windows open at this time of night. Cold was not something that agreed with the smoker. It had a way of nipping at him no matter how well he protected himself. Even with his layers of clothing, his thick fur-lined jacket, the fire festering in his belly from the cigarettes, he could still feel the cold clawing at his skin, forcing its way into his ears and nose and the tips of his fingers. The fingers were the worst, he decided. A runny nose and numb lips he deal with, but lazy fingers simply would not do.
He puffed again and lifted his hands to the smoldering flame, phalanges curling and cracking in the cigarette’s glow. It wouldn’t do him any good to complain. He tried to think pleasantly. Soon, he imagined, he’ll be tucked snug and tight into the warm confines of his bed, a hot meal in his stomach. Soon, there’ll be money in his pockets, a book in his hand and a long number of miles separating him from this ice storm of a city. Yes, soon he would be able to close that window. Shut the cold out. Soon…
“Into each heaaaarrttt some teeaarrssss must faaaalllll…”
His eyes move to the window again. A little black car with a broken headlight stuttered through a bent stop sign. A mendicant staggered across the road and tripped himself on the curb. He skins his knees and wobbles back up to his feet, swearing drunkenly before trouncing away.
He grunted and shook his head. Enough of these semantics. In a few hours none of it will mean anything, just words and thoughts lost in the smoke of the room. He stole one last glance out the window and catches the sight of a young man leaving a corner shop.
He was sixteen, seventeen maybe, average height and an athletic build. His eyes, rimmed with dark, shadowed circles are tired far beyond his years and twice as wise. There’s a heaviness to him, a silent burden weighing on his broad, proud shoulders, held up only by a noble, persevering strength. He looked strong; strong and young, his jaw cut, his brows low and resolved. Quickly buttoning his jacket, he takes a few cautious steps out into the streetways, his diligent posture carrying him with all the grace of fresh, undaunted youth. It was his walk the smoker liked the best. He walked with the clarity of a man with some semblance of purpose in his life. Despite the load rearing into his back, despite the weariness blackening his eyes, his walk was what defined his mannerisms and ensconced the cumulative sum of his virtue: brave, ambitious, indomitable courage.
The smoker smiled from where he watches the boy atop his window. Yes, he liked this kid. Whatever his name is, whatever his goals, this boy ought to have a bright future ahead of him.
Wordless, the smoker removed a long-barreled rifle from the darkness and shot him through the heart.
The boy stopped in the streets and looked about himself as if someone had called his name. He made no noise as he fell. He lay still on the streets, chest heaving, hands searching quizzically for an organ that is simply not there anymore. He dipped his fingers into the cavern of blood surfacing in his pulverized sternum and looked at the liquid with genuine curiosity. Rage took him. His fingers clenched, his jaw grit. Powerful muscles dare to flex off the all-consuming chill of death, his body suddenly emblazoned with furious, long-remembered purpose. He cannot die. Not here, not now. He is too important. He is too brave.
And then, on the same breath, he is gone. His arms fall limp at his side, his handsome face smacking deftly into the asphalt. The red rises higher out of its tempting geyser until it is pooling off his chest, painting the cracked gray streets with an unfamiliar color.
The smoker watched the boy until he knows he’s dead. He stared silently at the corpse, thinned eyes betraying nothing.
And then he is moving, diligent fingers clacking off bits of the rifle, snapping up his ash tray, packing them into a case, straightening the collar of his fur-lined coat. He is smoking, rolling the nearly-spent cigarette along the edges of his lips with his tongue, blowing crimson embers and smoky steam into the lonely, ruined little room. He is singing, lifting his oiled-leather voice to the still, wintry air, filling the empty night with his quiet, crooning song.
“But one daaaayyy the suuuuunn will shiiiiinneee…”
He is gone a moment later, the smoke lingering in the room and the notes echoing off its hallow walls the only evidence that he had even been there at all.
In the shadows of a run-down high rising flat, a window was open. Thick smoke swam around the room, the tendrils of musky heat fighting a losing battle against the chill seeping in from the night. From the shadows, the thin end of a cigarette bud glowed ominously, briefly giving the blacks and grays of the dilapidated apartment a vibrant flash of red. A long, satisfied sigh followed.
“Into each liiiiiiiiiife some raaaaaaiiiinnn must faaaaaaallll…” the smoker sang softly to himself, his oiled-leather voice as rich and plumed as the smoke steaming from nostrils. “But too much is falliiiiiingg in miiiiiinee…” He lifted the embering paper to his thick, pouting lips and draws a deep drag. The ensuing red only briefly outlined the hard, meaty edges of his face, the wide apple-core bridge of his nose, the thick scruff foresting his jaw. He reached over and tapped the cigarette ashes into a small glass bowl at his side. He glanced out the nearby window, coursing up and down the near-vacant streets below.
He grunted, shaking his head and thumbing the cigarette back into his lips. He hated this room. It was cold, much too cold to have windows open at this time of night. Cold was not something that agreed with the smoker. It had a way of nipping at him no matter how well he protected himself. Even with his layers of clothing, his thick fur-lined jacket, the fire festering in his belly from the cigarettes, he could still feel the cold clawing at his skin, forcing its way into his ears and nose and the tips of his fingers. The fingers were the worst, he decided. A runny nose and numb lips he deal with, but lazy fingers simply would not do.
He puffed again and lifted his hands to the smoldering flame, phalanges curling and cracking in the cigarette’s glow. It wouldn’t do him any good to complain. He tried to think pleasantly. Soon, he imagined, he’ll be tucked snug and tight into the warm confines of his bed, a hot meal in his stomach. Soon, there’ll be money in his pockets, a book in his hand and a long number of miles separating him from this ice storm of a city. Yes, soon he would be able to close that window. Shut the cold out. Soon…
“Into each heaaaarrttt some teeaarrssss must faaaalllll…”
His eyes move to the window again. A little black car with a broken headlight stuttered through a bent stop sign. A mendicant staggered across the road and tripped himself on the curb. He skins his knees and wobbles back up to his feet, swearing drunkenly before trouncing away.
He grunted and shook his head. Enough of these semantics. In a few hours none of it will mean anything, just words and thoughts lost in the smoke of the room. He stole one last glance out the window and catches the sight of a young man leaving a corner shop.
He was sixteen, seventeen maybe, average height and an athletic build. His eyes, rimmed with dark, shadowed circles are tired far beyond his years and twice as wise. There’s a heaviness to him, a silent burden weighing on his broad, proud shoulders, held up only by a noble, persevering strength. He looked strong; strong and young, his jaw cut, his brows low and resolved. Quickly buttoning his jacket, he takes a few cautious steps out into the streetways, his diligent posture carrying him with all the grace of fresh, undaunted youth. It was his walk the smoker liked the best. He walked with the clarity of a man with some semblance of purpose in his life. Despite the load rearing into his back, despite the weariness blackening his eyes, his walk was what defined his mannerisms and ensconced the cumulative sum of his virtue: brave, ambitious, indomitable courage.
The smoker smiled from where he watches the boy atop his window. Yes, he liked this kid. Whatever his name is, whatever his goals, this boy ought to have a bright future ahead of him.
Wordless, the smoker removed a long-barreled rifle from the darkness and shot him through the heart.
The boy stopped in the streets and looked about himself as if someone had called his name. He made no noise as he fell. He lay still on the streets, chest heaving, hands searching quizzically for an organ that is simply not there anymore. He dipped his fingers into the cavern of blood surfacing in his pulverized sternum and looked at the liquid with genuine curiosity. Rage took him. His fingers clenched, his jaw grit. Powerful muscles dare to flex off the all-consuming chill of death, his body suddenly emblazoned with furious, long-remembered purpose. He cannot die. Not here, not now. He is too important. He is too brave.
And then, on the same breath, he is gone. His arms fall limp at his side, his handsome face smacking deftly into the asphalt. The red rises higher out of its tempting geyser until it is pooling off his chest, painting the cracked gray streets with an unfamiliar color.
The smoker watched the boy until he knows he’s dead. He stared silently at the corpse, thinned eyes betraying nothing.
And then he is moving, diligent fingers clacking off bits of the rifle, snapping up his ash tray, packing them into a case, straightening the collar of his fur-lined coat. He is smoking, rolling the nearly-spent cigarette along the edges of his lips with his tongue, blowing crimson embers and smoky steam into the lonely, ruined little room. He is singing, lifting his oiled-leather voice to the still, wintry air, filling the empty night with his quiet, crooning song.
“But one daaaayyy the suuuuunn will shiiiiinneee…”
He is gone a moment later, the smoke lingering in the room and the notes echoing off its hallow walls the only evidence that he had even been there at all.
