Wrote a tiny story opening. Any comments and feedback of any sort on any aspect of the piece are highly appreciated. The basic premise is some guy, the "figure", has some serious emotional issues and does some pretty questionable stuff. This is his first documented stint. It's called "Road of Solitude" for some reason.
“For the crime of destroying the home of an innocent, I sentence you to die”. The figure in a brown military coat uttered these words as he stared down the barrel of a silver 5-chambered revolver. The man he was aiming at, splayed across the dirt, looked helplessly to the sky,
“Oh God… help me” he tried to scream, but his voice caught in his throat, his fear strangling him.
“Nothing will help you now. This is where your road meets its end” the figure replied. His face was utterly vacant, but his eyes betrayed a sense of affirmation, as if everything within him accepted, and if it could have been possible, rejoiced at the scene that lay before him.
As the blood steadily leaked from the man’s now limp body, the figure turned to the woman behind him who was cradling a child in her arms. His eyes still held that same affirmation. The look on the woman’s face as she turned to stare at the figure was one of absolute disgust, revulsion. It was as if she had touched something, and at first marveled its uniqueness, its practicality. But when she realized what it meant, she pulled away, horrified at the fact that she held it close, believed in it, almost made it a part of herself.
A sense of confusion struck the figure, and he realized that he had committed a grave mistake. It has not the first time such an incident had happened. It would probably not be the last. He didn’t say anything. He was never good at repairing damage. Instead, he holstered his revolver, pulled his hood over his head, and stepped out onto the road. He almost looked back. He knew she was watching him, tear-stricken. If he knew any better, he might have. But he simply didn’t.
