"There are some stuff in life that you grow used to. You begin to consider them constants, things that you take for granted. Then they change, or are taken from you. You lose your ground and can't find out where the hell your world went. This happens when someone you care about dies, when your body gets crippled or even with simple stuff like when you're fired or have to move from your home. Even though you rationally know that it's gone, you still keep getting that 'when will things get back to normal?' inside your head, as if your brain expects to look at the couch and see your wife again or look at the mirror and see the face without the scar. Then reality slaps you in the face and tells you that this is how things are now. They say that when your brain actually understands that this is the 'normal' from now on, you are ready to move on and get over it.
I like to say mine is taking its time. I think all of us hunters should."
The sky. What did the sky look like? For some reason, he couldn't remember.
Why was that on his mind anyway?
He took a deep breath. His hands were firm. His body, tense. He was ready.
All those images and sounds were coming back now. The hate was pounding within his head as if it ran through his boiling blood. The sweet, alluring melody of hell.
He knew they were still out there. It didn't matter. They'd all die.
Kill them all.
Frustration. He screwed up. He couldn't forgive his own incompetence at the only thing he ever knew how to do. She could be dead now, and because of him. He was a failure.
But not now. He wouldn't fail again. This was the last blow in a long fight and he knew what he had to do. This time he would get it right.
And they will pay.
His weapons were ready. He put on the mask.
He knew it wouldn't make any difference. He didn't wear it for secrecy. He just wanted that painted skull to be the last thing they'd ever see.
He swallowed hard and let the rage run free through all his body. Somehow, he knew how to combine the cold thinking of a professional with that burning desire to destroy. The cold feeling in his gut told him that his body was being pumped with copious amounts of adrenaline.
He stepped out of the door and looked at the darkness with savage eyes.
"Come now, motherfuckers."
They were coming. He stood watching, looking for the first one he'd invite to the dance of death. There. The first fell almost instantly. Then the second one. The sound of gunfire was now sending all the others an ellegant invitation to join the dance.
Blue? That's what the sky looked like? What does blue look like?
They gathered around him. He leapt forward toward his next target. He couldn't help but notice how easy it was. His mind was intensely focused in showing him a clear path towards his next target, and them one straight to hell.
Once again, he pulled the trigger. Once again, they fell. He laughed. Not because it amused him, but because it felt appropriated. His crazed voice echoed through the darkness.
"Come on! Is this all you got?"
He kept moving. He wouldn't stop until the last of them hit the floor. Come on, can't you kill me? Can't you stop this walking failure? Then I'll eat you alive.
The dance continued, until there was only one dancer left on the stage.
Half-deaf by the gunfire and panting, he stood beside his last fallen enemy. He didn't feel any better. He already knew he wouldn't. But that's not what hate and rage are all about anyway.
At the end of the day, hate was still the only feeling he could trust. It wasn't exactly a joyful ride but it kept what was left of his world in place. And now, it allowed him to get things right. She was still alive. So if he was only meant to destroy, he'd at least do a damn good job.
He could see the first morning lights appearing in the horizon now.
Yeah, blue. That's what it looked like. He'd show her the sky the next day.