Part of the local paper is a story printed somewhere within the pages. Just like all members of this life, the content speaks to you in a way another just wouldn't comprehend. How would you tell a blind man of the beauty of the northern lights? Or a deaf man of the same beauty in a bird's song? You just had to know through experience.

Upon finding the piece on a page with other news relating to crimes committed and possibly linked to organized groups, you read the following...

Ouroboros

One to the side of the head. That's all it took. A clean shot. Clean in a sense the bullet was in and out, but the stain of the decision would always remain in one sense or another. Just like the bits of brain matter splattered on the windscreen.

You force them in close and hug them tight. It didn't need to go down this way. If only the rules were followed. In this life, that's what made you or broke you. Your character was forged through hardship, through the fire of direct experience and the ever sharpening tool of conflict. But your life was at the mercy of the life. And so was theirs.

Their eyes show you they know. They now know. They may not forgive you, and only eternity could play that fiddle. But the windows of their soul tell you all you need to know. That they could see it now. It was clear as day, in a spiteful cold glare. And maybe they should've seen it before. That was the life, though. Your friends became your enemies. And also the opposite, if the cards shown matched.

The emotion is overwhelming. It drips from you like an open wound. Remorse. Anxiety of what's to come, after this. The fear of losing a part of oneself, through death. And it wasn't just anyone. You ate together. You laughed together. You even bled together. They were family. You were family. You broke bread together and your souls grew together. And now they were being torn apart.

You drive them to the spot that your relationship begun. You look over at your friend who is silent. An eerie sense of loss overtakes you. Intuition was a peculiar thing. You didn't need words to guess at it. Some things were just as they were, and spoke with a language beyond sound. And for that, it could be misinterpreted or not readily understood. But the feeling was there. Distance.

You let them know how much you appreciated them. You look upon their presence in the passenger seat. They called for this. In one way or another, they made this happen. As we all did. Our sins followed us, a shadow width from devouring us.  And at some point we would also have to account for ours. Hopefully not today. Hopefully our bloody hands wouldn't turn and slap the face that fed them. Not today.

You scrub at your hands. And down the drain goes your innocence. But it feels like the blood is still there. The guilt of deceit. It plays on you. You had to do what you had to, you tell yourself. A dog eat dog world, you barely sympathize with yourself. Blood in, blood out. Family above all, you remind yourself, as you look in the mirror and don't recognize the face staring back. Then, the phone rings...

Now, play the story backwards. And as the cycle of life meets in an infinite loop, end to end, like Ouroboros eating its own tail, so too are we the victims of our own crimes. As if one indistinguishable collective soul inflicting karma upon ourselves, we are but at the brunt of all our actions. Death and life live happily married.

And as we imagine it was us that killed for the code, maybe it was us that died instead? Read it in reverse and see if the devil comes for us, and see that we lay down upon the sins of our own beds.