From The Rooftop

I look down thirty stories from the rooftop. Everyone looks so small and insignificant, but one man down there is significant. The man who killed the world.

I’m thirteen right now. Having his first we dream, discovering self pleasure, in a few months I’ll make out with Suzy Karin, the first time I kissed a girl, I think this is the year I had a crush on my science teacher, or he does. He’ll learn to play the saxophone after joining band, he’ll see the Grand Canyon on a family vacation, the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen in my forty-seven years.

So many people down there, around him, going about their lives. Do they know what he is? What he will do? Could they? Does he dream of killing so many? Does he want to cause so much pain? I find myself questioning the morality of what I’m doing. Is it right to kill someone for a crime they have yet to commit?

I lift the rifle, put the but against my shoulder, I adjust the cross hairs for gravity and the breeze. His head is the cross hairs. He looks so innocent. I don’t hesitate.

The bullet goes through his head, peaces of his shattered skull strike bystanders, his brain, liquefied by the supersonic bullet, sprayed innocents around him. The horrible event will he etched into their memories. It had to be done, right or wrong it had to be done, for the future it had to be done.

I leave the gun behind, I don’t need it anymore. The police will be here soon, this is my only chance for escape. If I’m caught I will plead guilty and take the sentence they give me, I will not tell them why, they would not understand, or believe. If I get away I will find a new identity and travel the world. It would be nice to see the un-destroyed world.