Tragedy of Wanderer

Scribbling:

Tragedy of Wanderer:

“She appeared to him like a night he could take a refuge in without a confrontation to his diluted past or concentrated future. He found himself like a thought lost in abyss seeking a shelter in the night’s door; which appeared mystified by its chaotic silence.

He remembers walking through that door that evening and how she without even looking at him passed him a glass of scotch at the counter. He felt she knew instantly what he was looking for; perhaps she could see through the body and soul. She felt to him like that tiny hour at sunrise or sunset that makes you confess to your crimes without even a little effort.

‘I am here to kill’ – he whispered when she came near to pour another round of scotch. She raised her face a little and went back to her business, as if it was nothing new. He felt surprised, he had just given away his secret and yet she did not react. He felt small in front of her grand shadow. He thought how every minute she must have been facing several like him day and night. For sure why should she bother who he was here to kill for, for it was a town of killers. To kill was as much a daily business, as buying vegetables in that locality. Killers were seen with certain awe, after-all they gave them hope that there was still some life in that ash covered smoked town which killers could choose to end. They felt alive at that thought. Killers were respected as a messiah of life who could take it back whenever he wished, and why not, for people owed it to them.  

He was lost in thought when she came near him again to pour another glass, but this time she drew a little too near and whispered with care – go to room 13, you will find what you need. He was drunk enough to be stunned and sober enough to resist, he simply gulped down his glass and moved towards stairs. It was already past mid-night.”