Pigeon Stool

Pigeon’s lined the rafters of the abandoned storage facility that housed the skeleton man. Sunlight cut through the cracks in the aluminum roof and illuminated the small platform where he laid, asleep. He was covered in white pigeon shit and brown dust particles. A fresh round of droppings landed on the side of his head, splat, before oozing into his ear and mouth. He opened his eyes and rubbed the side of his head, smearing the shit into his unkempt facial hair. By the time he realized what the wet substance was he had rubbed it into his hair and along the back of his neck. Under previous conditions this would have sent him into a blind rage, but a new calm had enveloped him since learning that he was a murderer. 

Sitting up to light a cigarette, he thought to himself, ‘If this is what it is to be a killer, then there is no difference between a killer and a person who has not killed.’ The initial shock had lasted only a few hours, ‘Now I am safe. I do not exist, and from what I understand Laz did not exist. They will not hunt down the killer of a man who did not exist. It does not mesh with their mode of being. I am free. I am non-existent. Today is the first day of my non-life.’