A man sits by the window , lost in thought. His muscles are tensed up. Palms are sweaty and there are fluctuations of pain in his head.
His eyes seem detached from everything. They are filled with guilt. With passion, love and rage. But there is no sorrow.
He has his gaze fixed outside the window on the rocks next to the sea. They are jagged and covered with moss.
There is light wind coming from the sea, a chilly sea breeze, instilling a pang of cold inside of him. The overcast sky seems almost apt for his mood, tailor made. A scene right out of drama and theater.
Everything outside, despite the gloom, looks beautiful.
Everything inside resembles nature of a different kind. The feel of the cold steel of a magnum. The scent of fresh bloo, the dizziness of not knowing what just happened. The magnum’s empty chamber.
She lay on the bed, frozen. Her eyes fixated on his. That was her last view, of him, in a rage, in a mad frenzy. She kept looking at his, as he shot all six bullets in her.
He loved her. He was obsessed. And obsession can be dangerous. She was his muse, his madness. Seeing her in another’s arms drove him insane.
He kept looking outside. He kept wishing he knew everything was alright.