if you could choose the way you die, what would it be ?
as easy as it sounds to say, it's not easy to project and answer right away. . it hurts to think of it, for some, that one day their life will end and every wall they've built around themselves will crumble. and it's gone — just as fast as they've imagined, their life is gone. dreadful.
. . life, this simple word, four letters (two vowels, two consonants) is what we call the span time of our living, right ? it's precious, fragile, irreplaceable — some see this, some don't — it's what helps us create memories and experiences that hold the same importance as life itself: they are precious, fragile, irreplaceable. time helps create them, too; it helps us go through every day, and. . .
. . it is like an unwritten rule to know that time could not be stopped. stories from around the world were told to explain that time manipulating was possible, some came to say they're not. each one of them was different and each explanation had its own quirks and every one of them was meant to captivate the reader's mind. with imagination, creation comes close; hard to believe that those stories accepting time bending were now reality for none other than stefano valentini.
ladies and gentlemen, the well-known artist and photographer, stefano valentini, was the one to break the rule. time was nothing but clay in his hands as his polaroid modeled it, slowing it down for seconds to captivate the essence, the deepest and purest form of art.
once stefano found himself in the situation he put countless people in, the only words the artist muttered were expectable. he was now a piece of art — no, not a mere piece of art — he was a masterpiece, the final work for his self-made exposition. the smug smirk on his bloodied lips, undying, the way his icy eye traveled up the detective's form — what could he do ? expect mercy ? from sebastian castellanos ? never. that would've been pathetic. not in his darkest dreams could he expect someone like him show mercy to someone like stefano.
that bullet was the final drop to fill the cup and it was aimed right to the photographer's head. the camera was raised, his gloved finger on the button; the moment the bullet was close enough and the detective walked away, time stopped.
the bullet stopped only to fall on the ground seconds later as if it was dropped, not fired. it fell with a silent clink and stefano. . stefano couldn't help but smirk. stefano moved his hand down, the camera slipping off away from his fingers before he tried sitting up. a pang of pain hit him immediately; the stab wound in his lower abdomen was throbbing, it required medical attention, but what could he do in a place with no nurse and no help ? other than playing doctor and patching himself up, nothing, so this is what he did.
this is what he did while thinking about detective castellanos and how he thought he could finally worry a little less. with stefano dead — or... not, not truly dead, but out of sight, sebastian could indeed worry less, but little did he know what the artist just had done. plans were plans, created to be carried until the very end — therefore, what kind of man would he be if he wouldn't finish his grand plan ?
the core was his and only his and he had her all for himself so little time ago. no worries though, no worries, it was not done yet. stefano slowly stood up now, dusted his blood-stained blazer and sighed, looking around himself. everything was dead around and distasteful for his observant eye. the door was right there, and with cautious steps his way was through it.
until then, stefano would've considered a complete idiot anyone who would've even tried to speak about this equally idiotic idea. roaming alone and injured through stem, yes, among alive cadavers and god knows what other atrocities this experiment failed to contain — just like back then, in the army, joining this project brought him pleasure for a limited time only to hit him harder towards the final touches of his work. . of making his dream reality. a light at the end of the tunnel — that machine he found functioning in a safe house was not hard to figure out. — with a little bit of adjusting, a little bit of perseverance, there — OUT. he was free and yes, alive.
perfect. this was the only adjective that could describe his newest piece. models were meant to look like this and the critics that dared to spit on his art didn't know a thing — just like always, stefano considered himself supreme above them all, cultured, educated. the limbs were reattached in their rightful places, the red contrasting with he porcelain skin and the audience. . the audience, sadly, was not there yet, but he was patient. patience was one of the few things he decided to keep from his old self.
no further description was needed — he just waited. . he waited for his dear friend to come and see.
