What he had to do.
He knew the moment he woke up what he had to do.
Even before it registered that he was staring up at a blank white ceiling, even before he heard the constant, incessant beeping of the machines near his bedside, he knew what he had to do.
The face of the shooter burned into his mind. He knew they’d ask him over and over again who was responsible for walking up to his door and shooting him. But though he knew, they couldn’t, because of what he had to do.
That face. That man. Not that he had been surprised. Not really. When he thought about it in the moments after waking, it made perfect sense really. He had pushed too hard and this is what he got in return. Being laid up in a hospital from being shot on his own doorstep.
No, he thought, he hadn’t pushed too hard. Maybe he hadn’t pushed hard enough. The point had not been to kill him, of that he was sure. There were easier ways to pull that off, he knew. Hell, he worked homicide cases every day that were a lot less messy than shooting someone in broad daylight on their own front stoop.
Yet it wasn’t careless, of that he was sure. It was thought out, planned. But not to kill. The point was never to kill him. Make him hurt? Sure. But what they didn’t understand, and would never understand, is that pain was never really a factor for him. Not anymore. Prison had taught him about pain. Being shot was nothing compared to having practically every bone in your body forcibly broken while you laid there watching as blood, your blood covered the floor, hearing the taunts and cheers of your assailants as they rammed their boots into your face, your chest.
No this was much simpler. Cleaner. It was to send a message. That was all.
Message received. But it wouldn’t be heeded.
Now it was his turn to send a message.
When he finally had the remains of the bullet in his hand, he felt a surge of barely contained excitement at the prospect of what he would do. No, this was no chore. Not a task forced upon him. In fact, he looked forward to seeing that face from his doorstep again. This time the message would be different, though the carrier the same.
He smiled.
.
Even before it registered that he was staring up at a blank white ceiling, even before he heard the constant, incessant beeping of the machines near his bedside, he knew what he had to do.
The face of the shooter burned into his mind. He knew they’d ask him over and over again who was responsible for walking up to his door and shooting him. But though he knew, they couldn’t, because of what he had to do.
That face. That man. Not that he had been surprised. Not really. When he thought about it in the moments after waking, it made perfect sense really. He had pushed too hard and this is what he got in return. Being laid up in a hospital from being shot on his own doorstep.
No, he thought, he hadn’t pushed too hard. Maybe he hadn’t pushed hard enough. The point had not been to kill him, of that he was sure. There were easier ways to pull that off, he knew. Hell, he worked homicide cases every day that were a lot less messy than shooting someone in broad daylight on their own front stoop.
Yet it wasn’t careless, of that he was sure. It was thought out, planned. But not to kill. The point was never to kill him. Make him hurt? Sure. But what they didn’t understand, and would never understand, is that pain was never really a factor for him. Not anymore. Prison had taught him about pain. Being shot was nothing compared to having practically every bone in your body forcibly broken while you laid there watching as blood, your blood covered the floor, hearing the taunts and cheers of your assailants as they rammed their boots into your face, your chest.
No this was much simpler. Cleaner. It was to send a message. That was all.
Message received. But it wouldn’t be heeded.
Now it was his turn to send a message.
When he finally had the remains of the bullet in his hand, he felt a surge of barely contained excitement at the prospect of what he would do. No, this was no chore. Not a task forced upon him. In fact, he looked forward to seeing that face from his doorstep again. This time the message would be different, though the carrier the same.
He smiled.
.