The Men Inside

Blount reminds himself that he is not to enjoy what he is doing. Murdering the rounder is a serious business; it must he taken on that level. He is taking it on that level. The old man’s breath is sealed off like placing a cork in a bottle; Hulm begins to inflate him with his own gases. Closer and closer. There cannot be much strength left in a ninety-four-year-old body. Blount applies himself to the task, the emotional edges retracting further. Harder and harder. In and out. Hulm flops on the bed. His body dilates. His eyes open and look into Blount’s. In those eyes Blount sees his own face. He feels ’ no horror. He looks no different than he has in years. Murder is not changing his features nor deforming them with complexity. It is now, it is always to be, it has always been the same old Blount.