The Smell of Her Hair
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As the bullet inched closer to his head, he took a moment to consider some things.

The first was just how lovely his first real girlfriend had been. She had been one of those artistic types who had never really managed to make the vision in her mind match the final product. She had a tendency to call up fantastically beautiful scenes and work them with the paints, always disappointed when the reality didn’t match her fantasy. He had helped her, of course, guided her hand silently, given her a soft, gentle kiss when she cried at the beauty of the thing she had created.

He reflected for a moment on their child, who had been stillborn. She blamed herself for it, but he knew the truth of the matter—that some things need to be balanced, that a beautiful birth of art had taken a beautiful birth of child—and while he never said it, she could tell. His temperament, his eyes when he looked at her, the painful distance between them that seemed to get further and further until it became physical instead of emotion, and she had left him forever.

He remembered the first time he met her, their high school year, when he’d first discovered some things about himself, about how he looked at the world, and how much he wanted her. She’d been so shallow. So weak in mind and body. It had been easy to take her, mold her, help her to grow as she should have. She appreciated it, of course. He made sure she did. Though it made her leaving all the more painful.

He recalled the scent of her hair. That was his favorite memory.

As his forehead was pierced, his thoughts broke, pain shattering his thought process as he felt the skin break, the bone buckle and shatter, slivers flying inward and out. He felt the heat of the bullet as its force bore it into the fleshy matter of his brain, eyes widening as he reached for his memories. No, he thought.

But by then, it didn’t matter.


Termination Report

Date: █/██/██
Subject: KTE-3410-Clockwork-Green

3410 terminated by small arms fire at close range, body removed and incinerated as per standard procedures. Guess the fucker can't stop bullets fast enough if you're in his face, but I can't do anything about the bullet now.

- M.E.

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