четвъртък, 29 януари 2009 г.

“Intangible to Law”

Today, in the breaking light of early dawn, all faces look pallid and gloomy; shocked and furious. Varna should be a city of liberal thought, a comforting shelter offering a breath of relief to those seeking refuge from the madness of the rest of the world. This is the very reason why it is a choice of preference to the majority for winding down; but not any longer. The fourth manslaughter of a murderer has wiped out that reason forever, or, at least, for long enough. Secrets spawned all over the city. Actually, secrets have always been in brisk demand.In just a couple of months, the man did everything and anything possible to meet the demand. As a real professional, he is aware of the subtleties of responsive actions. Laws of nature have proved that nothing gets to waste, even a corpse of an animal slaughtered. For that very reason, the murderer fed those who live on offal and the others, who die to clean their teeth with someone’s bones as if toothpicks.But it is hardly possible to forestall the reaction of crowd, as well as that of women. Just like a fickle lady, the crowd is discontented when you come, dissatisfied when you go, and displeased even if you stayed in one place.People probably think that he hardly gets up that early when he is not on the kill. But they are wrong. He loves to contemplate the sunrise. He likes seasons, because he likes change.Perhaps people also think that a man like him would be cautious not to get in sight of cops; avoids busy places, where identity documents are checked and he might get spotted by chance. But they are wrong again. Cops behave in a certain way. They follow certain ways. They stick to particular gestures. Their eyes never stop rumbling, brooding on the territory of the new place or situation they have been forced in. They commit to memory everything. Just in case they have to recall details later. That is why they can easily be spotted.People believe, that murderers never succumb to petty pleasures of life, but instead follow conspiracy rules at all times: to forget their names, phone-numbers, friends and relatives. They have been forced to grow out of habits and predilections, that their psyche gets easily shattered and they become suspicious of all: anyone present or absent. That haunting thoughts steal a sneak into their heads: “do I have to live like that forever?” and “sooner or later cops are gonna get me”. But they are wrong. People think that their smiles will get tenser and tenser, movements – more deliberate, the look – more suspicious. But they are wrong.A felon quickly adjusts to being aware of life and its values, the most treasured of which is freedom. But he is home to fear, fury and that elemental pain. They make, else decent people, to cross borders, they otherwise couldn’t even if they had international passports. If this is karma, it is a horrible one. It just happened that way. He is up to his ears in scum. He’s got no other choice than swim; to get lost in the crowd. He is simply one of them.He is having his morning coffee at a seaside café, smiling courteously at the waitress, his judging look skimming down the long hips of the girl, while flipping the morning paper pages with circumspect verve. Then he would give the once-over to the heading: “A forth misshapen corpse of a woman, found near a seaside hotel!”, folds the newspaper with neglect; nothing new to him in today’s issue; another vapid day in the office of the serial killer.

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