Balance.

The concept that surrounds reasons for having a favorite toy is an interesting one. The toys that people, normally young children, would call their favorite would normally not be because of what the toy does for the child physically, but what it does for the child emotionally. For example, you may have a favorite teddy bear and that teddy bear is your favorite because your military dad had it delivered as a Christmas present from Afghanistan, or something along those lines.

Because the “Favorite Toy” would be an object that does something for me emotionally, rather than physically, I would pick something of emotional significance. Some people had teddy bears, some had stuffed penguins, some had giant fluffy pillows named Mr. Fluffy, I had nothing but the long barreled, sleek, shell loaded instrument of destruction I kept in my closet. Just after the day father taught me how to use it, I kept it with me until that selfish bastard shot himself with it. I haven’t done anything with it in almost a week, but I feel like hunting today.

The instrument, for me, is a sign of rebirth. They help me fix the world in a way that others can’t. Every four seconds, a person dies from starvation because the world does not have enough food to support life for its people. I help the world by slowly balancing out the scale, making less human life. I do what I do to save the world, not hurt it, but some days I feel like I bring people too much pain for their own good. But, if this is what it takes, then this is what I’m going to do.

I step out of my house, quickly making sure it wasn’t noticeable in my backpack. I decide to go hunting downtown today, maybe visit the art museum down there. I step onto the subway train car, feeling the carpeted floor moving away from home, leaving it behind.

I reach my stop, and start climbing the stairs and instantly mark a random target. I reach the man, grabbing his hand and asking him if he’d seen my mother, she’d only been walking here a few minutes ago, just barely meeting his gaze as I walk away. I catch myself staring straight into his cold silver eyes. Silver. It’s been almost ten years since I’ve seen eyes like those… my father was the only one who I have ever seen with eyes that same color of shimmering gray. I let go, only to find the man still staring straight at me, his eyes intensely following my movements, almost as if he’s known me his entire life.

I walk into the nearest abandoned building, making sure the man is still in tow while I continue to pretend to just be a helpless lost girl in a big city. I pull out the instrument, and load the shells into the barrel, all the while making sure not to make noise, while at the same time hiding just behind a wall in a back room. I walk out and into the main room just as he walks in, and I close the barrel back into the wooden side of the weapon, feeling nothing but envy as I stare into his cold silver eyes and pull the trigger. I love hunting.

As of course you may know, leaving a body out in the open is never a good choice. As soon as I start moving him, taking him into the basement where I will most likely cement him straight into the ground he was born on, a wallet falls out of the man’s pocket. I open it, hoping to find a reward for my troubles, but only instead find a picture of a little girl. That little girl is me, at 8 years old.

I’ve missed those silver eyes for so long.