The Blinded Man aka Misterioso

27

I miss the music.

That’s the only thing he’s thinking.

Here the sensitive fingers should have started on their cautious promenade.

He sits motionless for a while on the living room sofa, imagining that he’s listening.

Here’s where the sax should come in.

The body performs no dance of death, as it lies there on the floor, without moving, with two holes in the head. It’s a piece of dead meat; nothing more.

Yet another corpse.

Without joy, he mentally checks another name off the list.

Art has become a trade, and a mission has become an execution. All that’s left is an inexorable, imperative list.

I miss the music, he thinks as he picks up the gun from the table and leaves via the terrace.

In the wall he leaves behind two slugs from Kazakhstan.