October, 1994

First there is the smell.
Hint of tin,
strong whiff of copper,
a sense of burning sulfur,
salt peter,
just a dash of carbon,
a faint olfactory memory of hoppes #9 cleaning solvent and oil,
shit.

Then there is the conspicuous lack of sound,
someone is suddenly not screaming,
unexplained ringing in the head,
a motor has just stopped running,
a non-buzzing just behind the ears,
familiar sound replaced by an unfamiliar silence,
echo of violence in a silent room.

Finally the look of the thing.
Slumped against the white brickwork,
russet crown stretching up the pasty white wall,
confettie strewn across the otherwise immaculate floor,
a study in total relaxation,
reddish purple roots,
grey rubber limbs,
blossom of grey and crimson.

Eyes betray anger,
sadness,
a touch of surprise,
a complete and utter lack of final comprehension.

Not every end marks a new beginning.
Sometimes an end marks only an ending.