On a road never driven before, in a small town barely evident on a map, with a task less than pleasant to complete.
He’d seen the last breath, a half-gasp that would not come. It wasn’t his doing, but he caused it. Could have prevented it. Maybe.
Some were not built for this game. They lacked that innate understanding of the rules. The rule.
The kid was one. He had skill and drive and desire. But he lacked kill. Most do.
Killing is not learned or passed genetically. It doesn’t come along in a moment’s heat. It is the moment.
It is the knot in the cord brought about by movement. It is focused eye unchanged by the blink. It is the nerve impulse released before thought or recognition.
The kid was good. Very good. But was not the killer he needed to be.
Few are. A lonely few.
The pavement gave way to gravel, then dirt and dust. The gentle rise to the hillside home was this journey’s last leg.
iPhone Notes Story 04.21.15