There was a sense of mechanical purpose about him; the kind of energy a volkswagon running at a 100mph exudes, complete with flashing headlights trying to make up for an empty soul. He looked the 'subject' in the eyes. Not that he was new to this. He had done this many times before - his precision and nerves were the stuff of folklore.
But today was different. He was struck by a sudden feeling of awe at what he saw. A miracle of nature perhaps? This was the first time he was thinking of it this way. Today he didn't see a 'subject'. He saw a living figure, the curvacious body, the smooth fingers, the heaving of the torso as every breath grew stronger. And yes, the eyes.
What was it about those eyes? The fact that they weren't blinking or asking for mercy. Had they accepted their fate? Mocking him that if he went ahead with it, he would have a guilt ridden existence for the rest of his years? Or was it the last bravado of a flame about to go off, almost saying 'There's more where I came from brother'.
Or was it him? Was the blood on his hands getting harder and harder to wipe off? Was it a tussle between conscience and occupation? Or worse still, was a it a lone battle that conscience was waging to kep itself alive? To resurrect itself within a body that had forgotten its very existence?
And then, there was what my friend Jimmy Weed would refer to as a moment of clarity. To another person, his motives may be frivolous and without merit. But he knew what he was worth and believed that redemption would finally be his. And besides, if he didn't dissect that frog, he would fail the term.
All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Mairaj Zindran.
Published on e-Stories.org on 11.09.2009.