<< Trembling Crosshair >>
January 12, 2004, 7:05p.m.

There will always be that person meditating about rivers transpiring out her eyes, gun crosshairs at her temple, and hands rusted with dry blood. She will be leaking befuddled tears as she stands in the center of attention. Sharp commands will not reach her ears, and silence will swallow her. She is left with frazzled thoughts and fading emotional distress. Her mind in its puzzled state will lead her to the path of acceptance. Emotion will be halted by a tourniquet of numb being. Her tear stained face sympathizes with her cracked hands. She knows that she commited a crime so horrific that even the nastiest criminal would cringe.

No weapon is concealed on her person. She is the only thing existing. Her tired corpse will collapse in time.

Men in black uniforms and helmets with dark visors point their M4A1 carbines at her tiny body. All they see is a dimmed girl in a smudged, white nightgown. Her hair a mangled nest of blond and streaked red blood. They are worried that she might have a bomb taped onto her, or hidden in the area. Her unusual behavior stresses them to be unreasonably loud. They look down at her for she is stationed in the middle of the capital building on the first floor. They have created a ring of men hiding behind the banisters. The balcony that supports them is cold granite and plaster.

She falls to the floor like a worn rag doll. They still shout at her deformed shape. One man descends down the stairs. He walks to her and nudges her skull with the tip of his rifle. She does not respond. On one knee he stretches his trembling hand to her neck. Her pulse trickled down to three beats and then stiffled. He mumbles a code under his breath. He has no idea what this girl has lived through, only that she killed 300 people.

There will always be that person meditating about how hilarious a small girl can be lying on a floor cold as she is, with crosshairs still bouncing on her temple, and hands rusted with flaking blood. She doesn't have to worry about what she did. It is left to the men in bulky black with guns, to protect their unnecessary thoughts.

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