Killing Hopeless

 The basement was essentially dark. Illuminated by one candle, the flame standing straight and tall in the windowless, almost airless room.

This was all he needed.

This and his music. Blues. Communicating truth through emotion. That's what music was to him. Emotion. Not sound translated into emotion - pure emotion, straight from one heart to his. That's how it worked.

He sat back in the oh so comfortable recliner and took a reverential sip of whiskey. The recliner comfortable from wear, comfortable from knowledge of his body. He sank into it like one wishes - eternally wishes - to sink into the arms of a lover. An honest lover - no hesitations, no resentments, no judgement - pure love that nourishes a soul.

The kind of love that can never exist between humans.

He didn't drink whiskey, he sipped it. Gave it its due respect. As elixir. Slowly spreading throughout his body, warming it, keeping his fears at bay and releasing the truths necessary for self evaluation.

He admired his handiwork. A scarecrow kind of figure, stuffed with foam, no facial features - with the word HOPELESS written on a piece of cardboard and superglued to the chest.

Hopeless had ruined his life. Stopped him in his tracks. Thwarted every positive intention and replaced it with inertia.

Until it was almost too late. Almost.

He was staring down the barrel of his own personal end times, having allowed too many decades to slip by as reality tortured his hopes into submission.

But reality - looming as inevitable death - inspired him to this room at this moment for the ritualistic murder of his most consistent nemesis.

Why not? What did he have to lose? No one really understands how the mind works. No one knows what will save you and what will kill you.

He had nothing to lose. Literally nothing.

He sipped the whiskey, stared at that word - HOPELESS - and his rage grew. Slowly building in intensity until it consumed his mind to the exclusion of any other thought or emotion.

He reached over to the end table next to the recliner and wrapped his hand around the beautifully crafted handle of the Italian stiletto knife he purchased specifically for this occasion.

Tilted the recliner forward, stood and walked towards his nemesis.

His arm swung up and down mechanically, mightily - as he plunged the knife repeatedly into the chest of the scarecrow. Stabbing, tearing, shredding with a viciousness that only long decades of frustration can fuel. Obliterating HOPELESS into unrecognizability.

When he stepped back he was breathing like an asthmatic, wheezing and gasping, sweat dripping off his face.

Yet he felt a lightness to his existence. This is what catharsis felt like. He liked the feeling.

Tomorrow he would begin his new life.

For now he sipped the whiskey.

And smiled.