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Death Wanted a Murder


Death needed a murder. Death needed a murder that night. Death simply wanted a human body, any human body, still and stiff and void of all life. Death needed that body to fall and fall hard. The body just had to be lifeless. It would have accepted a body shot, stabbed, battered, bludgeoned or any other way it could have been rendered inoperative. For some odd reason, Death was greedy that night. It was licking its chops for a corpse. It was waiting earnestly for a murder to take place.

Death did not want someone to die from a chronic heart condition, or natural causes. Death didn't want a stillborn at a birthing process. Death did not want an accidental shooting, or drowning. Death was in the mood for a cold blooded murder. Death was so use to murder it really wanted one before the next morning's autopsy. That's just how death felt. Every other feeling could take a flying leap out the window.

Death would have been blessed if it was a double homicide where no one was guaranteed to survive. The bullets racing toward a vital organ and making the victim or victims collapse to the cement gasping for breath and watching his pathetic life pass before his eyes.

Death was up and wide awake until it got its murder. The need for a murder was evident that night, when it began cursing and praying at an overdose victim in the PT Barnum Housing Projects to pull through and live. Death didn't want anyone to die that way. It had to be violent and gruesome with blood splattering all over the walls, or floors or even the asphalt. Death wanted shell casings to be scattered all over the room and the desire to see a chalk marking the floor where the bodies fell. The paramedics would arrive just to pick up corpses.

Death all in all, just wanted a murder. The frustration of waiting was eating away at death. Life was difficult living, but it would always put up a good fight. It never just went down without a courageous battle. Death just wanted a little more cooperation and consideration from life. Just a little.

© 2017 Frank Atanacio

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