The following text is actually the product of a very bored mind. What is written is not part of a story, but just two paragraphs aimed at providing a contrasting description between a person who picks up a gun for the first time and the same person when killing becomes impregnated in his blood.

The gun felt cool and clammy in his hand, like a foreign blot on his hands. He inched his index finger towards the trigger, all the while wanting to throw the weapon on the ground and run as far away from it as possible. His breath was coming sharp and heavy now and his hands trembled uncontrollably like minute tremors as he pulled his finger back to shoot.

He stared at the dreaded weapon for just a fraction of a second before picking it up. This time, however, the gun did not feel alien to him; rather, upon taking it in his hand, it felt like a part of his arm that was missing was reunited. He held it on his palm and gazed at it with a similar look as that of a mother looking down at her newborn for the first time. And in that instant, he realized how much he had missed this devilish part of himself. His hands did not quiver this time, and he held the gun with the familiarity of a man experienced with it. And with a skill he had forgotten to hone but still possessed, he took aim and fired. All thoughts of righteousness and morality were forgotten in the instant that he focused on an unsuspecting individual and pulled back the trigger.

And then he laughed; an evil, raspy laugh as his victim fell to the floor like a rag doll, the killer’s rectitude as lifeless as his prey’s body.