“The tangible mortality of man lends itself inevitably to the postulation of the infinite, for it is in the very nature of man to continually and exponentially question and ponder things beyond his own understanding and experience. Thus it is no great departure for man to overextend his empirical and cultural beliefs and explore the unknown. This is how we learn; being a creature of adaptation and curiosity we consistently produce new thoughts and beliefs, often without fully acknowledging their presence or validity. The issue of validity or morality is a subjective, social creation- information itself is devoid of conscious morality or opinion, and thus it can be stated that any information or 'ideas' are equally 'valid' and of importance; whether it can be used for good or evil is a matter of intention and subjective views of morality. This lends itself well to the formation of ideas and ideals- for advancement in this area is always as a result of building upon pre-existing information, be it prior ideologies; cultural and/or social values; historical theology; or any number of ideas that survive the passage of time and are transmitted via the shared information pool to which all thoughts and ideas belong. Do you understand? To which all thoughts belong, therefore we inevitably share the intrinsic experiences of others, a collective unconsciousness to which no specific owner is attributed. Your pain is my pain, and vice versa. Do not think you suffer alone, oh my brother, when what you are experiencing is merely the physical manifestation of the suffering we all experience, passed through the generations... Do you not feel enlightened? Suffering breeds clarity, it is through pain that we learn more about ourselves and our limits; there is nothing more pure than pain. Do you understand me?”
The mess on the floor groaned deeply and shifted it's head slightly, spitting blood onto the white marble. A bloodied eye set it's gaze upwards, fixating on the figure standing over it. The pupil dilated slightly at the shift in light, the nervous system still reacting to external stimuli somewhere beneath the pain. Of course the pupil is just a hole, a hollow in the centre of the eye. The blackness of the hole is the abyss inside of the eye, the darkness that hides inside all of us. The other eye was closed shut, swollen and bruised, with a deep capillary cut seeping below. The once-immaculate business suit of the villain was now soaked in dark blood as if it had been dumped in a sink of claret, and ripped in several places where thick gashes had penetrated the skin and opened it up, exposing layers of fat and muscle below the skin. But the deep gashes were not random nor were they a sign of butchery, very much the contrary. The lacerations appeared to be ordered, methodical, calculated. The deep lacerations served to sever important nerves, meticulously chosen and artistically executed. At the shoulders, the axillary nerves on each side of the body were pierced, cutting off the deltoid muscle's function to enable the arm to be lifted away from the body. The medial collateral ligaments of both knees were severed, leading to swelling due to haemorrhage and severe loss of function as anterior cruciate ligament damage also occurred in both knees. Deep capillary lacerations in the chest, cranium and limbs meant severe blood loss would occur, though slower than if arterial or vein lacerations had occurred. The result was indeed bloody and horrific but was carried out with a trained eye, not the work of a butcher but of an artist.
The shadow of a man lay in the grips of agonising pain and localised paralysis as blood seeped from open wounds onto the sparse white marble floor of his 'humble' abode. The material ornaments, artefacts and trinkets gathered in life and placed about the room brought no comfort to the man as he lay confronted with his own mortality, the metallic taste of iron in his mouth bitter-sweet. Life extended before and beyond him, a series of fleeting imagery and forgotten memories of a time long past, before the rapturous love of material wealth overtook his soul and the lustful glee of power took away his compassion for humanity. It is in the moments before death that one truly measures the worth of a man, for it is in those final moments that the true spirit of a man shines through and the material, corporeal world is transcended in a final beautiful moment of shining glory. But this man's soul was crushed long before the blows to his moral shell, and as such his eye was dull and vacant as it stared upwards, beyond the figure of retribution, beyond and beyond this mortal world and it's fleeting moments...
Our hero pauses for a moment, a small smirk playing around the corner of his lips. This one would not last much longer, his breathing was already becoming shallower and more laboured as time ticked by, the large grandfather clock's tick-tick-ticking the only sound to be heard in the large entrance hall besides the almost inaudible, laboured breaths of the clock's owner. The grandeur of the house was wasted on these two figures, infinitely closer in those final moments than two people ever have been- as the hand of retribution cupped the villain's face, their gazes locked and a deep understanding was passed silently between them. The villain opened his mouth slightly to speak but all that came out was silence, blood flowing from his mouth onto his torn chest. Our hero put a finger to his bloodied lips and grasped his hand as he whispered into his ear,
“Shh. No need for words. I understand you now more than anyone ever has and ever will. You have surrounded yourself with the comforts of the flesh and hid away from the responsibilities of Man, seeking pleasure and materialism over helping others. You have stepped on many people to get where you are now, ruined many lives and brought poverty and despair to those around you. But true poverty lies in the heart of Man, for you knew not what true wealth was, so blinded by the ethics of the very society that has turned against you. But fear not, my brother, for this is your moment of enlightenment. I have made you pure, Hayward Browne. You have never been more fit for heaven that you are now. For you see, you have done the bravest, most selfless act of your life this pensive eve. For you have died.”
And with that final speech, the villain knew peace. The thinnest of all smiles played upon the corner of his lips, and his eyelid slowly closed over and a final sigh left his body, as quiet and content as a child's sigh as it lay in the arms of its mother with no fears in the world, safe and content, knowing true peace as it slipped slowly into the soft, warm abyss of unconsciousness. Our hero lay there with the body as the warmth slowly left it, the last vestibules of mortality fleeing the human vessel as the pool of cooling blood congealed around him.
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