Interview with a suicide bomber
Interviewer: Hello, can you tell us about yourself?
SuicideBomber: Well, I am Martin Devan. And I am a suicide bomber. I am 23 years old and I live in a 3 stories house, actually in a flat.
I: And what can you tell us about how did you get here?
SB: well I blew myself on a busy street in the center of the town.
I: Oh? Very good. And how did you feel then?
SB: Well, as i stood there, everything was slow. The pigeons glided trough air, mothers pulled their children away, men started running still carrying their briefcases and drops of water touched my face. All that happened in a blink of eye, everything was slow. I could feel every breath, i could feel every blood cell against my veins, i could feel neurons exchanging the informations. The people were moving away from me, it took them hours if not days to do so, holy music filled the world, angels were singing and playing every instrument known to man in the most beautiful way. As my thumb started going down to press on the button, to ignite my body in crimson flames I could feel the cells of my skin pressing against each others, making folds. I could feel each cell press against oily surface of the red button. My eyes, i could see how they worked. The light painted them in a blue light from outside to inside over and over again, I closed my eyes. The darkness was warm, it was safe. I pressed the button. Light engulfed my body and the world, everything was shadowless. Every man and women and child, every cat, dog and bird, every pole, curve and stone were engulfed in dull white light. Nothing had shadows. My body started disintergrating, cell by cell, fiber by fiber, drop by drop, molecule by molecule into pure energy, what didn't, flew across the sky, slowly onto the stone ground. I was on the ground, my body was no more, all i had was my neck and head, my eyes ruptured and so did my ears. The cells were turned into a mush, gooey red mush.
I: And what is this? This studio and all this?
SB: Didn't you wonder why there is NO studio? Why you don't remember your life or why don't you have a face? This is my last thought as my head is on the floor, and last surviving neurons process the last of the functions.
-DARK-
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-STATIC-
End Transmission
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