replication along the edge // aj

I suppose we all could use a break from routine every once in awhile.

I do enjoy every moment of it--wrapping well-manicured fingers around lethal implements as I lash out at realistic mannequins filled with blood and organs like every other human being during the day, and transitioning to the real deal with a pistol in one hand and piles of cold, hard cash in the other when the district sleeps.

I collect. It was not a request but an encouragement from Dad to help him out in his business, and so every night he provides me a list of names with an amount tied to each of them; an amount they wanted under them, without proper consideration of the consequences for keeping the numbers to themselves.

"N-No, please! I promise I'll pay tomorrow, just let m--"

A lightning bolt crashes down and singes a patch of earth.

It is fun, it is pleasing, but yet I also enjoy calmness--the feeling of the sand between my toes, the scent of the tide as I take deep breaths through my nose, the way my locks of fire whip behind me and the cool air tickles my skin. A paintbrush in one hand, I leave aquatic strokes on the canvas of an easel I sit in front of, seagulls cawing in an exchange with the waves as I twirl the follicles around until white becomes differentiating blues.

This is an occasional escape that I will myself to sneak off in, not because of consistent boredom but because I just like it too, as much as whipping around metal to tough skin and embedding bullets deep into the sensitive genuinity of people's.

But maybe it's alright to take a change of pace sometimes as well, shake up the game my father and I run with a grace period of landscapes before returning to hovering the gun over various heads and deciding which ones to pull the trigger on.

Just a break from what you keep letting yourself know for awhile.

It is the late afternoon, and the sun is slowly beginning its descent beyond the shimmering sea as numerous clouds surround it in an organized, almost unnatural arrangement. Fishermen in the distance can be heard as their figures maneuver in and out of the corner of my vision on a dock, catches of the day being loaded in bucketfuls for the unique form of consumption that our district was so blessed with. The boat's bell faintly chimes, the loud chatter begins to subside, and I am putting the finishing touches on my masterpiece of this enchanting shore. Dots of brown, black, and grey along a tan strip, turquoise and cyan and royal blue with sparkling whites and tints, a couple salmon seashells.

I glance around and beyond the clump of murky seaweed that is depicted in the distance on my painting is a figure coming along in my direction, but for now I do not pay him much mind as I near completion with my artwork.

Just like all the others, this time of contrast to what I've known was well worth it.