A Lack of Magic
It was a hot summer night in the heart of the city. Bright lights lit up the streets in vibrant neon colors below a dark and starless sky. To most, it felt heavy and oppressive. Parked cars lined the streets adding another dash of muted colors to the scene. Bright reds, somber blues, and flashy greens.
This was his ecosystem. He felt comfortable and at home beneath the ads, the towers of steel and the glass, and the never-ending sea of concrete. This was where he belonged. To him, it felt like this city had always existed. The world revolved around what happened here, and many saw it as the center of the world. It felt like eternity itself in this fast-moving city, and he was its faster-moving center.
He smoked as he marched through the streets. With each exhale, the cloud hung in the air listlessly; there was no breeze. While the air was languid and almost stale, his mind raced. From thought to thought it jumped.
The day was a challenge; his accounts were facing a temporary shortfall that required a quick and sure response to stave off the losses. Every move he made was filled with pitfalls and risk, but he deftly moved the funds around and saved his companies millions. Spreadsheets and charts flashed behind his eyes every time he blinked; the financial data was burned into his brain. He needed release.
It was late in the evening, and the clubs would be closing soon. He knew there was one a few blocks from where he found himself, and he took a quick left at the next street to reach it. The line to get in was mercifully short, and he moved to the bar. The music created a wall of sound around him as he absent-mindedly watched the screens mounted to the wall. He checked his side pocket and felt the flat metal there. A butterfly knife. He had no interest in staying long and moved into the fecund crowd.
Amidst the throbbing music and the flashing strobe lights, he moved deeper. As the throng of people moved and danced, he drew the knife from his pocket and started slashing and stabbing randomly and without reason. If the people he attacked screamed, he couldn’t hear above the music. He moved wildly to the beat as the crowd near him began to disperse. As people fell closest to him, he slashed their necks where he could. Blood coated the lemon-colored dance floor.
In another life, he wakes up from his sleep shaken by the visions he just had. Unsure of what he just saw, he quickly leaves his small shack and places his hand on the earth. The feelings from the dream still cling to him: an aching loneliness and so much rage. The stars are bright in the moonless sky above him, and he says as a prayer as he releases the troubles of the vision into the ground. He pictures the dark thoughts seeping from his hands like roots into the earth. He hope they will eventually feed the plants that could turn them into something beautiful. A red flower, maybe. He feels relief and goes back to a sound sleep never to see the city again.