Maybe a Tax Man Instead

“I thought it meant something to me before now, but after today I realize it truly never meant anything to me at all. I can’t frankly remember the last time it helped me sort my thoughts, or get out of bed or even make me feel content with myself. For the longest time I thought that it would bring me joy and up until now it was like chasing some mythic beast that I knew all along didn’t exist but hoped that along the way I would find something better and settle for that instead. It was a beautiful lie I kept telling to myself and others, but it WAS a lie and I know now that doing this, to all of you, would just delay facing the truth until tomorrow.”

A sharp click addressed the room from the desk at which he was sitting next to. The click was dull and had a faint plop sound muffling it just enough so the person in the shadows who was still breathing could tell it was covered in their blood. From that click came a slight scuffing of cloth on old leather as the man in the chair lifted himself up and began crossing the old office in the dark. The person, unknown and indescribable through the darkness was too mute to make any distinguishing noises and while that did not suit the sadistic side of the man crossing the room it certainly helps in keeping the evening’s events from passing out of the room and into the hall before he can flee far from prying ears and eyes.

“I realize, now, that what I wanted was a visceral thing born of reaction to my existence. Sure it could have been fame or glory like celebrities suffer in their contentment but that didn’t feel right. I am not a proud man, nor am I prideful of my actions even when they are well received. I could have become a soldier or a priest and received praises of morality but I don’t believe in any religion or one nation that can correct the problems in the world before I go quietly into my own silence. No, I think that it had to be this way because I can’t sleep at night without the images rolling past my eyelids or the sounds reverberating from my memory in the same way a child used to noises of the ocean might buy a cheap recording to help him in his adult years. I needed this, but not like this.

The man stopped, looming as a giant wrapped in darkness and only outlined by the dim forbearance of light from long past the trees and clouds stopping it from cutting the deep midnight sky. Bright, piercing light much like that of a novelty key-chain meant to keep one from scratching the door to their car after a long day of mindless grinding of life came from his hand. Once the person, an elderly man with a stain of tobacco and a cross of faded gold adorning him in their respective places, was known by the light he was then known by the knife and all was black once more.

“That look cannot be inscribed in stone, or captured by video or illustrated by artists in two or three dimensions. It cannot be held by a corpse and it cannot be given by a lover or a friend. If I want that look of terror, I will not find it in allies nor will I find it in victims,” He paused and laughed at himself in the darkness, and said, “but I can find it in enemies and I can find it in the general populous. But what do people fear more than death? Maybe I’ll become a tax man instead…”


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