Hunter

The man saw him, his hair like an ungainly, shadowy mop on his head, his eyes, the man saw, filled with a dark hunger, almost trying their damnedest to pop out of his skull & consume everything in view.  Death at his side, ebony fire blazing his trail, the man stepped forward, his hands gripping cold metal under his shirt.  The man didn't know this person he approached.  He could have had friends, a life, a family, but the man didn't care, this had been his lot in life since that cold winter’s night.  That night, when he vowed to show them what they’d shown him.  I wonder: did he realize, as he brought cold, unfeeling black iron to bear on this thinking being’s heart, bullets tipped with wood at the ready, that he was the same-or, at least, growing to be the same-as those vicious demons of night that he was making this man to be one of?  An uncaring animal, killing all that looked a target and anything between them?  I cannot help but remember, alongside the sound of a deafening BANG the old proverb: "He who fights monsters should see to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."