Saints and Sinners

♱ prologue | part II

Pov: Vilhelm Andersen

The next morning.

The biting chill of a freezing Swedish day gnaws at my skin like a relentless predator, its icy claws sinking deep into my bones. I brush my naturally dark auburn hair back, tucking the strands under my beanie as I adjust my stance. The remnants of dinner's disaster still mull on me, so I chose to vent my fury with a gun in hand, no live target in sight. Simply put, I'm at the shooting range for the day.

My body shifts, striving for the perfect position, my shoes sinking into the wet mud, layered with drowning grass and melting snow. I inhale sharply, drawing in the sparse, icy oxygen that the Sweden weather permits. The air is crisp and unforgiving, carrying with it the promise of a snowstorm, heavy in the darkened sky above.

Nihil sub sole novum. The ancient Latin phrase haunts the recesses of my mind, drowning out the cacophony of my thoughts. My focus narrows to the cold, unforgiving metal of the gun pressed against my palm and I let muscle memory take over. 

It means 'there is nothing new under the sun.'—a grim reminder of life's cyclical monotony.

Nihil sub sole novum.

I exhale slowly, my breath crystallizing in the air before dissipating into the void. My grip tightens around the pistol, fingers curling around the frosty metal with a fierce, almost desperate, determination. The world around me blurs, leaving only the weapon and the gravity of its purpose.

Mea vita mea est. 

The frigid air sears my lungs as I steady my grip on the weapon. The gun, an extension of my will, becomes the conduit for my rage, my despair, and my yearning for control. In this frozen moment, I am both creator and destroyer.

My life is mine. 

You will not take it away from me because of the crown. I will not let that happen.

With a flick of my wrist, I raise the gun, aiming down the length of the range with a laser focus that borders on obsession. In that moment, the world around me fades away, replacing itself with the rhythmic pounding of my heartbeat and the steady click of the trigger as I squeeze it again and again.

Is it my past, my present, or my home I fear the most? What about the future that's yet to come?

The one that's looming amidst the Scots Pines and Spruces, there it lurks, a subtle presence draped in a guise of absurdity, its gaze bearing the mark of insanity, taunting me with its enigmatic allure.

With each shot fired, a burst of adrenaline surges through my veins, momentarily drowning out the racket of voices in my head and washing away the weight of the world. I feel better, more free. Momentarily, Nietzsche's assertion that "to live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering," echoes in my mind, merging with all the Latin.

Sometimes I deem my brain to be a colander. 

With every pull of the trigger, I feel a little more alive, a little more in control of my own life and destiny. "Mea vita mea est." The tension that has been coiled tightly within me since last night begins to unravel, melting away like snow beneath the warmth of the gradually emerging sun.

The landscape shrouds itself in a hazy mist, the distant trees fading into the gloom like spectres of a soon-to-be-forgotten past. I let the last bullet pierce through my target, the dissipating echo of the gunshot broken only by the distant creaking of branches and the rabid howl of the wind. The universe seems to hold its breath as the person in my mind materializes from the mist. He makes his appearance known like a ghost would—some people are ghosts before they are dead.