"Arms talks have broken down between - "
Click.
"Women's rights activists have burned the - "
Click.
"Two men were brutally murdered last night in their - "
Click.
"The cease-fire has been broken - "
Click.
"Citizens are protesting against the chemical waste - "
Click.
"Three people died - "
A black object flies through the air. Light glints off its surface. It hits. There is a smash of breaking glass. Shards fall to the ground. The voice stops. I stand. Two steps take me to the window. I look out. The city stretches out before me, alive with lights and noise and the suffering of five million people. Most live by hurting the rest, preying on the weak, killing and hurting and laughing and yelling and hating. I scream. A scream of anguish, of one man against impossible odds. I can't stand it. The pain is too much. The remote knits itself together behind me. The TV too. What time is it? Ten o'clock. I grab my coat.
The street. Sirens wail in the distance, a low keening sound against the backdrop of five million voices. No respectable person is out now. If there were any respectable people. I walk. Aimlessly. One foot in front of the other. Why? Why not. It gives me time to think. Two guys walk out from an alley. I glance at them. Tall, thin, muscular. Leather jackets, silver chains, blood. One has a tattoo on his right leg. A skull with a knife through one eye. They step back. They know me. They didn't yesterday. I let them live. I had to. They serve a purpose. They give the politicians and rich guys someone to blame. For their own mistakes.
I walk. The darkness envelops me. Darkness reigns here. As everywhere. There's a noise to my left. Flashing lights and loud voices invite me into Ted's Place. Why not. I go in. The room is packed with people. People of all types. Tall, short, fat, thin, and all with one thing in common. I see pain and suffering and hatred in their eyes. Each deals with it in their own way. Two kids in the back sniff their worries away. They go through hours of depression and pain for the one quick second of pleasure. Stupid. How can anyone live like this. Yet most people do. Stupid, and sad.
A man cries into his glass. A common sight. He has nothing. He's been thrown out of his home. He's planning suicide. A common plan. Probably the best thing for him. And the rest of the world. Welcome to real life. He makes up his mind. He's going to go on one last spree of violence, then kill himself. A common idea. Sorry, buddy. He stands. He steps out of the bar. A brick falls from the roof. He's hit, and killed instantly. I couldn't let him do it. Why won't people learn? A common mistake.
I sit at his stool. The bartender eyes me while polishing a glass. I'm not surprised. I don't blend in. Trench coats went out of style years ago. So did large, brimmed hats that keep your face in shadow. I look like exactly what I am. An outcast. From everything. He hands me a glass. Beer. It's been with man for thousands of years. And will always be with him. It's an easy way to drown your worries. Temporarily. I drink it. He looks at me for money. I look at him. He forgets the bill. Much simpler. He makes another drink for someone else.
A woman sits next to me. High-cut skirt. Low-cut top. Common. She's curious. Hmph. I lost that emotion a long time ago. You can't be curious when you know everything. I ignore her. She leaves. Disappointed.
There's a game going on in the back room. If you could call it that. And I don't call two people quickly stabbing a knife between each other's fingers a game. They both stab each other's thumbs. Cut them clean off. They yell in pain. I don't blame them. They jump at each other, yelling and clawing and tearing and stabbing with knives held in their good hands. Both die. I make sure of that. I leave.
The street. Again. For the countless time. I always end up here. Wandering. Aimlessly. What else can I do? It's not these people I'm after. It's the rich. The oppressors. The men and women who force this suffering to continue. But I can't stop them. I kill one, another takes his place. I knock down a building, they build another. No one can fight the whole planet. Not even me.
I walk. There's nothing else to do. It relieves the monotony. If I didn't, I would have died of boredom eons ago. I've conquered boredom. I've conquered all the emotions. None effect me. Sometimes I wish they did. There's only one thing I haven't conquered, and that's what I am supposed to do.
A man is sitting on the sidewalk. His hair is shaggy, and his clothing torn. He wears dark glasses to hide his empty eyesockets. He hold out a metal cup. I put my hand over his face for a moment. He gasps, and removes his glasses. He peers around with his new eyes. He seems to be in shock.
"Sir, thank-you sir, thank-you thank-you thank-you..."
I start to walk away. He follows.
"Sir, how can I repay you? I'll do whatever you want, anything. Sir?"
I continue walking. I knew I shouldn't have healed him.
"Sir, you've changed my life. What can I do for you?"
No one else on this planet would say something like that. Shows how secluded his life has been. He still follows.
"Sir?"
I stop and turn towards him. He stops. I look directly into his eyes. He stands perfectly still, incapable of moving.
"Leave me alone."
The words I speak go directly into his mind. He turns slowly and begins to walk back the way he came. Hmph. He thinks that sight is a blessing. Not here. Now he will be able to see, not just hear the violence and torture and pain and suffering and anger and hatred and fury and anguish and torment and agony and death. In two days he will come to realize that it wasn't a blessing. He has no skills, no job, no money. He can't beg any more as he's not blind. It's probably best for him that he will be gunned down during the next Police raid. Police. A gang of rich kids who run around in the heavy armour slaughtering the defenceless poor. Oppressors.
I've tried to stop them. I can't. There's too many of them. Even I am limited. I can't just in one swipe kill every single one of them. And if I could, what then? It wouldn't solve anything. Nothing can solve anything. My mission will last forever. I can't leave until it's done, and it will never be done. A pointless existence.
I walk. Some part of me thinks that I can just walk away from it all. I know I can't. The pain and the suffering and the death is everywhere. The Earth is covered with slaughtering, mindless beasts that walk on two legs and call themselves civilized. Civilized. The meaning of the word is lost on them. I can't stop them. No one can. I've failed. I'm tired and bored and know that nothing can be done. I walk. I walk past fights and bloodshed and hurt and pain. I walk.
A siren wales. From around a corner, a car appears, with flashing lights and the symbol of authority. From out of the window points a gun. High-calibre. High-velocity. The product of scientific advancement. A flash of light appears from its nozzle, and people scream and fall. Why do they scream. They should be happy to be finally out of this hopeless world.
Hopeless. It seems to have come to that. I stop and think, and the car squeals past me. It veers to the right and crashes into a building. All aboard are killed. What else could I do? I keep thinking. My mind does not want to think it, but it must. I have failed again. Mankind is hopeless. Nothing can be done. I have made up my mind. I cannot keep trying a hopeless task.
I look around. People are crying over the bodies of the recently dead. They feel sorrow and anger and hatred and want to kill those responsible. So kill yourself. You're responsible, you stupid people. Can't you see that the killing and hatred and death and suffering has got to stop? No you can't. You can't see anything. Not even something so obvious as that.
Eyes, take your last look at this world. You shall never see it again. My mind is made up. A cool wind gathers. It swirls around me, picking up speed and power. It spins faster and faster, higher and higher until all the shocked figures around me can see is a swirling column of debris from their hopeless world. It keeps going faster and faster, shimmering in the gloom around it. The figures start to back away. That won't do you an good. I bring my hands together. One. I move them apart. The figures start to flee. I bring them together. Two. They are running now, trying to escape that which they do not understand. Cannot understand. I bring my hands together for the last time. Three. The column of wind explodes in all directions, expanding around the globe and dissipating in a clash of sound.
Now I must wait again. One more, I must start life anew, in the vague hope that maybe this time it will work. It hasn't yet. And I have tried countless times. But maybe this time. Maybe. It has to happen sooner or later. Probably later. I walk.