Saw the coolest old guy today. He was stooped, wearing a tight white singlet which revealed arms that had once been so strong. They were covered in tattoos. Not stickers but tattoos. Real tattoos. Scars of experience. What he must have thought his pain should look like. Baring himself by covering himself. You could tell that he would take no shit from anyone. Anyone.
But now his own body was giving him shit. And it was hurting him more than any fistfight. His body had always been a force. His force. And now it was turning on him. It used to be all he had. Hell, it was still all he had. Now he had to find something else. But what? Whenever he had felt like this in the past he would get a new tattoo. The pain would heal him. Because at least getting tattooed was supposed to hurt. But now his skin was too thin. Too weak.
He had never considered his mind a force. Not until now. Fuck, he was using the hell out of it now. It was churning like crazy. As his body shrunk his thoughts were slowly massing. Like an army. A dark and mysterious army. He would lead them into battle. He would learn to fight again.
But threatening? Could he be threatening again? This was all he needed. Just this. To be noticed. Even if it was as a ghost. To trigger security alarms in every body that encountered him. It was his only form of acknowledgement, after all. A dead man; walking the streets – born again.
He supposed he was dead, anyway. It did not matter; his body had been AWAL as it was. He accepted this fact silently and instantly. Like a true standover man. The grace of the thug washes over situations such as this.
So one tool did remain functional – him. His mind. Though it was a new and unfamiliar weapon, it was independent from his body, and this realisation strengthened him. Seating plan or no, death and rebirth had always sat next to each other.
There’s always a ‘but’. And here it is – the clincher – all along, was it only words that could have hurt the ones he had to hurt?