Way out west lived a mysterious man with a solid and tall build.
As he walked around town, eyes would turn to the ground at the thought
Of the people he killed.
He was a pistolero with the blood of one hundred men on his hands.
Some innocent, some harsh, and some cruel.
And after he finished, he would drive to the next town and plop himself down on a
barstool.
“One Budweiser,” he’d say to the man behind the bar with the beard that was old and gray.
The man pours the drink, and the pistolero takes a sip while reminiscing about his day.
He remembered the sound of the bullet that shot directly through an enemy's head.
He downs the whole beer and suddenly laughs at the thought that a new man is dead.
He slams down a dollar, rises from his seat, and slowly exits the bar.
He opens the door up, hops in the front seat, and begins to start up his car.
As he drives down a treacherous road in the dark, he suddenly begins to ponder.
He thinks about the warmth of the blood on his hands and is reminded of the meaning of sonder.
“They’re just bodies!” he thinks as his foot presses hard on the gas.
“They’re just bodies who have done me so terribly wrong, and I get to make them pass!”
He wildly whips down the streets, windows down, and without care.
The tires rapidly spin against the pavement, and the pistolero feels as if he is floating on air.
Sometimes he feels as if he is wrong for doing what he has done.
Then he remembers the feeling of bliss as he touches the cool metal of a gun.
It’s a feeling that can’t be replicated, and it’s something so divine.
The thought of it alone can send a shiver down his spine.
Many will say he is sick, but he kills without a care.
He knows no greater purpose, and by the gun, he will swear.
When his drive is finished, he slowly parks the car.
He looks into his rearview mirror and examines his newest scar.
It’s wild and mangled, almost like an octopus’s shape.
It travels from his cheek to his eyebrow, but it's just another scrape.
He exits the car, his keys in his hand, and walks to his front door.
He enters his home with a sigh of contentment, but he feels something pierce his core.
There are no sounds; there are no sights to him; there is only pain.
He falls to his knees, and as he nears closer to the ground, he discovers a red stain.
He’s losing his breath, his vision is blurred, and his face is becoming quite pale.
Though he was in such a state, he heard a voice audibly wail.
“It was you! You monster, I saw it with my own eyes! So save the excuses and save all the lies.”
There stood a woman with a dripping knife in her hand, and everything worked out
just as she planned.
The Pistolero had shot her husband just the other day.
She saw the bullet hit him, just as plain as day.
She wasn't sure why and she wasn't sure how, but she knew she had to get revenge, and she had to do it now.
She watched the killer leave the scene, though she was distraught and scared.
She wondered how the hell on earth was she the one he had spared.
She looked at the beat-up car he drove and memorized the plate.
The woman had one goal; for the killer to meet his fate.
And now, as the Pistolero lay in a puddle of crimson red,
He thinks about how soon enough he will join the dead.
It’s funny how the tables turn, and it’s weird how a feeling can fade.
It turns out dying is only fun, when you're the one that is holding the blade.
Kylie McKeon is a Junior BFA Design major from Massachusetts. "I love journaling, listening to music, and exploring NYC," Kylie says.