Aged

"How did it come to this?" His lip quivered as he held the weapon over the young woman's body. Guilt pierced through him like a gust of winter wind. He studied the new corpse with pain, but he felt that he owed it to her to at least look. He could pay her that much respect, this unfortunate stranger. Blonde, acne-stricken, thin. Just skin and bone, really. Maybe she was hungry, out looking for food at the wrong place and the wrong time. She shouldn't have been out by herself. One thing that stuck out to him, one thing that was a rarity now a days, was her necklace. It was a heart-shaped locket, probably contained a picture of her family or something. He wondered how she had held on to that for so long, people would kill for real silver like that. He wouldn't. He would let her keep the locket close to her heart, perhaps it would do her some good by escorting her to the afterlife. He liked to think that he would be pleasantly escorted to Heaven (which, coincidentally, looked very much like Florida in his mind) when he passed on.

His question was a topic that should be up for discussion, he thought. How did it come to this? Everyone knew how. Ever since the government had taken up arms against the very people they were supposed to protect, ever since the democratic president became a lovely, state-of-the-art tyrant, things had changed. This incident summed the whole ordeal up perfectly, in fact. People had turned against each other instead of rallying together. This young woman had attacked him, presumably for his belongings (of which he had very little), so he killed her. It's amazing, really. A few minutes ago the woman probably thought that he would be the one whose blood soaked the earth, whose body would soon become food for worms and maggots. Sometimes life doesn't go as you plan, does it Girlie.

He had set out to find food himself, since the government's rations for the month could probably only suffice for an infant that eats like a bird. Since this run-in, he had changed his mind and decided to just head back to the tin can that he called home. That the government called his home. He lifted his bloodied cane with each step, and wheezed when he finally sat down in his worn armchair. Sixty-two years old, he was in no position to lead any sort of rebellion. He was in the position to be led like a lamb to the slaughter, to sit here and perish under gruesome circumstances while the world continued on its merry way. It was up to the young people to revolt. This was no longer his fight, he thought. The sound of a famished stomach echoed throughout the room. Perhaps he would make it to next month's rations. Perhaps not. Life and death did not seem so different to him anymore. Neither was very appealing.

The next day was rotten. The guilt from killing that young woman had faded, somewhat, but the guilt he felt from not really caring about taking her life had sought him out and was bent on thrashing his brain in. For her, the nameless victim, he had to do something. He had to care. He had to change. How? He felt his back click and pop several times in his two or three attempts to get out of bed. Old age mocked him. His not-so-youthful spirit spat on his general feeling of contempt for how ridiculously miserable life had become. This morning, he thought he would let the contempt win. He determined to let the burning rage loose, perhaps that would tame the guilt.

What could he do to satisfy the anger? The answer lay with the youths, as he had thought the previous evening. He could teach them the truth. He could fill them with rage and justice just as he was filled. For that one girl, life could have been so different. He could not just sit idly by as the future for these young men and women was torn to pieces by the vicious teeth of lying politicians. He would not stand on the side lines anymore. He put on his ragged coat and grabbed his blood-stained walking stick, and, for the first time in months, went to the town.