The Value Of A Life

My eye twitches as a small, warm spot of blood hits me on my right cheek. My jaw tightens. I hate that. I don't want to take anything of them with me when I leave. I rub it away roughly, slipping my weapon into the holster at my back.

I remember I used to flinch when I shot them. At first a lot, then just a little, then a tightening of the skin around my eyes was the only sign it bothered me. Now, nothing. Except a twitch if they spatter on me.

Truth be told, I don't hold life in high esteem. Death doesn't bother me. Killing doesn't bother me. I'm doing them a favor. I envy them.

Why do so many people think it's so damned great to be alive? Why do they continue to want to bleed and struggle? Hell can be falling down on their shoulders and they still fight to retain that tiny spark that keeps their corporeal mass animated.

You're probably giving me the look now. The 'What about you, stupid?' look. Hell has ridden on my shoulders since they were old enough to bear weight, and yet still, after 35 years of it, I breathe. Yeah, you're right. I've stayed alive despite odds that would melt a statistician's cerebral cortex. Why?

Because. Fuck them.

So many people have tried to kill me that now it would be a capitulation to die. A failure to let myself get killed. They'd win. And I hate life too much to let anyone else decide when it gets taken from me, and I hate them all too much to do them a favor and take it from myself.

So I live.

But I don't take pleasure in it, either. The killing, I mean. Some of the people around me do, and I don't get it. But then, I don't take pleasure in anything, really.

I have a few times. It really blew my mind, actually. Scared me. I've laughed around five times in the last ten years or so, and each time, it scared me. I think I'm afraid I'll never stop, and they'll turn into screams. Another way to give in to them. So I don't go crazy, either. Well, I don't think I am. I keep doing the work and getting things done, so I can't be crazy, can I?

I don't let anyone get close enough to sniff it out if I am. I don't let anyone touch me. And I mean that in every way you're wondering. I touch people. They don't touch me.

So I stay alive to spite them. Is that even life? I get tired. I ignore it. Hell, I use it. I've gone days without sleep. Truthfully, more than a few hours of it pushes me into a panic attack. Like I'm sliding into the darkness or some damned thing. I don't know. But I feel better if I sleep little. Keeps me from wanting anything but continuance. I just want to keep going. If I'm tired, that's enough. When I'm rested, I start to wonder about...more. So I don't like being rested. There's only one other time I wonder about more. I avoid that, too.

I know what you're thinking. Tired people are sloppy. They make mistakes. Reflexes are slow and all that. Not with me. I'm built differently. When I'm tired, some parts of me die. The parts that prod my mind with useless things like doubt and guilt and remorse. The part that pays attention to the discomfort. The other parts sharpen to a razor's edge, and I get this light- headed, energetic view of the world where I accomplish my objective and am not worried about it. It doesn't bother me. For one, I've done it so much it's routine. Two, I'm doing the poor assholes a favor. And three, I'm too tired to give any other thoughts any energy.

I mean, we don't really know what comes after this, do we? My opinion is that it can't be worse. And I know that there is even more darkness and evil and pain in the world than you think. You wouldn't even believe me if I told you some of what I know. Really, everyone is better off dead. And killing them is just my part in it all. Still, I don't do it unless I have to. Like I said, I don't take pleasure in it, so why would I?

There are, of course, people who might be better off dead if you only took into account their own feelings, but they're important to someone else. I don't let that stop me, of course, but I'll grant you that it gives them some sort of reason to live. Of course, who's to say that the person or people who appear to want or need them alive wouldn't be better off without them?

Yeah, I know. There are exceptions. Damned few. They don't skew the statistics enough to count, if you ask me.

There's really only one that I can think of. And he skews everything. Everything.

I've looked at it from all angles, and he really needs to stay alive. I'm sure there are factors I'm unaware of that might change my conclusions, but the more he stays alive, the longer I think it has to be that way.

Some people don't realize that. People are stupid, you know. And they're selfish. They walk around in a bubble of self- prepossession and don't give things enough thought.

I have a lot of time to think.

So there is one thing I do that doesn't fit with the paradigm. One thing I expend energy on that doesn't seem to really meet any personal needs of mine. I mean, I think I'm too tired to have those needs, so how can something meet needs I don't have?

Sometimes I have to go without sleep a long time to cleanse myself, though. Before I can go back to needing nothing more than to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

It hurts too much to let anything more live inside me for any length of time. I have to keep being the me I am all the rest of the time. Even though being that other me feels good. *Because* being that other me feels good. That's way too dangerous. So I stay away from him. Try not to know what he's doing *all* the time. Try to keep our spheres clearly separated.

But I keep him alive. Even that hurts.

I've thought about it a lot. *A LOT.* And it's settled. Until the whole world tilts on is axis, it's settled. I wish it wasn't. I wish I didn't feel like I had to keep him alive. It doesn't fit with the rest of my life, like I told you. And then when I get too much sleep, I even let myself hope for more. That stupid, scary, breathless thing called hope gets its hooks in me. And that scares the hell out of me. I don't sleep much.

You know, it occurs to me that really, that's the only true pain I feel in my life. It's the only thing that doesn't fit. Doesn't let me keep plodding away in the dark. Makes me seek a little light.

Maybe I should get rid of him myself. Ignore my mind and just clean up my world. Make things unmessy. Make things simple.

But I'm kind of afraid. Of what I'll become if I give in to that impulse. I care, still. Which is part of the whole problem, of course. I wouldn't care what I became if that annoying discrepancy in my life could be eliminated. That...hope thing. But I do care, so I can't end it. Ironic. Circular. Trapping.

So I run in the wheel, and I keep him alive. And when I get too much sleep, I pray that he'll win.