THE POSTMANWHOALWAYS COMES TWICE
I killed a woman for the first time yesterday; she hardly made a sound. Silence fell upon the darkening hill-top and the silence remained, lasting. A car drove tentatively into view and settled a few feet from where the hill descended into the town.The lights from the town flickered relentlessly as ripples danced on a distorted lake. Silence fell on the hill top once more. A bush rustled and a figure moved with effortless caution towards the car; a shadow loomed and drifted into nothingness. A screaming came across the sky. It occurs to me that I have an unusual hobby, if you can call it that; few do. Obviously it has occurred to me but, for the sake of this story, imagine I have recently undergone some sort of spontaneous realisation. Now, many would presume the deep-rooted reason for my actions is a Freudian nightmare of a childhood plagued by an abusive, hate-ridden father and an over-affectionate mother, or any other combination of clichéd parental issues, but when my mind wanders back to my childhood, as it does on occasion, it is hard to remember beyond the monotony of the mundane, underwhelming nature of my adolescence. The figure overshadowed the car now, breathing heavily, fogging the window as he did so. He stood, waiting, watching, transfixed. A light glimmered inside the car illuminating the outline of a woman’s face, innocent, genuine. Silence fell upon the car. There seems to be a constant struggle raging in my head between my, I suppose, moral conscience and my ideas of romanticism, and more often than not I shun my morality. I suppose it’s a coping mechanism. I therefore vindicate my actions on the basis of said romanticism, a unique style I’ll admit, but genuine nonetheless, for I see the human form on a truly pure level: nothing hidden, totally vulnerable, that
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