Bullet headed toward Hell

He woke up and felt out of place, distant, even strange…but this wasn’t waking up in morning…this was an awakening of senses he’d long forgotten.

Visiting with people who were alive always made him feel better, but the sensation was so fleeting since they weren’t his own loved ones. They were somebody else’s. Hell, things were ALWAYS somebody else’s everything! Somebody else’s wife, somebody else’s dog…somebody else’s mental stability. The way he looked at himself right now he’d been mooching since his youth and he was still doing it.

He glanced down his long legs at the new boots he’d just bought and considered the money he pissed away. Boots, jackets, cars, and motorcycles…well, that wasn’t so bad, he had to have a new Hawg every so often. Yet he knew, sitting there, staring at the burned-in-leather design over them, that money happiness was as short-lived as a rose and it just wasn’t satisfying him anymore.

Gathering his long hair together in the back, he smiled oddly, considering how lately nothing in his crappy black hole of a life was satisfying.

Fuck…even his mom was gone.

His buddies dispersed in one fashion or another and the love of his life long deserting him because of his occupation.

He had nothing.

His smile enormous as he shook his head lethargically and looked at his own reflection in the bar mirror.

"You fuckin’ loser." He mumbled and quickly finished the contents of his third Lager, washing it down with a chaser of Jack. He snapped his long fingers, summoning over the barkeep and requested another, pulling out a fifty to ensure quick service.

The barkeep, interested in the amazingly gracious patron, quickly stashed the bill in his pocket and produced the familiar Lager and it’s chaser.

He continued to keep one eye on his drinks and one eye ever vigilant on the surroundings. Germans were fine people, but he knew his body frame, clothes and aura drew weirdoes like a magnet. He could remember, as if it were only yesterday, when a good bar room brawl helped alleviate all the stress- all the stored up shit inside him. But those days, too, were long gone…much like his youth and happiness.

Eventually he rose from the stool, slapped down more money for good measure, smoothed his hair and zipped his jacket. Never one to stumble after consuming large amounts of alcohol, he walked from the establishment looking perfectly sober as if he were walking into his mother’s home.

He slid his lanky form into the rented vehicle and slammed the door. Resting his wrists on the steering wheel he looked out over the blackness of the night. How much it seemed to be representative of his life right now. Mentally, physically and emotionally. He was fucked over, unusable, forgotten, disposable military garbage and he knew it. Nothing was the same anymore and nothing would ever feel as good anymore. It was all gone and…

He had nothing.

Jamming the key in, he laughed pathetically. Whether at himself, this night or his life in general, he wasn’t sure, but at this stage of the game it really didn’t fuckin’ matter anymore.

He had nothing.

He knew that perhaps the sleek black sports car, he couldn’t recall its name, was a hell of a tiger on the road, but speed was the only thrill left in his control. Tonight he intended to take full advantage of it.

He revved it fiercely, screeched from the lot and headed toward the Autobahn.

With his continual thousand-mile-stare gazing off at the road ahead: causing him to enter into a semi-comatose, auto pilot mode, his life in recent days played before him in slow motion.

For all intents and purposes he had everything a man could want and yet…

He had nothing.

His foot got heavier on the gas as the black car raced down the road, like an elusive bullet headed toward hell.

His sickening laugh started to rise from his chest and slowly rolled out his mouth. Fuck, if there was anything he hated more than himself right now, it was his life.

What hadn’t he done? What had he fucked up so badly to feel this way? Why was he plagued with nightmares, flashbacks and heart palpitations? Why did his hands tremble all the time- they were his bread and butter? Why did he feel so emotionless when taking a life? Why had he only considered the excitement and financial gain of his job and never the governmental manipulation or constant soul raping that was going on?

Why didn’t he have more friends? Why wasn’t he a better friend to others?

Why wasn’t he married with a couple kids, a mortgage and a mundane job? Why didn’t he have the comfort of his mother’s caring face anymore? Had his work been a factor? Was he as worthless as a son as he was a human being?

The second anniversary of his mother’s demise was ascending and sitting at her grave was not how he envisioned family bonding with her any longer.

Fuck. He was a joke- and so was his existence.

He floored the gas and closed his eyes, a second too long maybe, but when he opened them and noticed the car was out of control, he laughed.

When it lifted completely off the ground he closed his eyes again, as if knowing relief was about to envelop him for the first time in his life.

The scrap metal lay a tangled mess in the grass and rock…smoking opaquely into the quiet night air, as if freely releasing the ghost who departed from it quickly.