Stop

         He struggles out of the peacefulness of sleep as the metallic buzz of the alarm clock reminds him harshly of the existence of a conscious world. As a result of the strangled cry of the clock, his leaden arm somehow raises enough to hit the sleep button. Immediately, the buzz halts as silence like sand once more fills the room. He is tempted to drop back onto his pillow and sleep again, as the silence seems to be pressing down upon him with an irresistible force. However, he has work to do and he cannot give in to the temptation and surrender to the sweet bliss of sleep.
         He uses all his drowsy will to drag himself out of bed, thus chasing away the rest of sleep. He stumbles around the floor for a bit, regaining his balancing capabilities. Then he goes about his morning routine and prepares for the day waiting.
         He leaves the home in which he has lived in for over 15 months and catches a ride to his place of work. The ride is anything but silent as the other members of the carpool have put the radio on a hard rock station and the obnoxiously loud music fills the confines of the small cramped car. Ordinarily he would object to the music but the song is one he kind of knows so he lets it be. The intensity of the music seems to shake even his bones as he hears the lyrics for what they are - an omen of bad things to come if humanity doesn't change.
         He reaches his stop and gets out of the car with the music still pulsing through his veins. It seems a fitting song for the job he must do today. He is not looking forward to it but he knows he must go through with it or nothing will ever change. So he climbs the several stairs, still intending to go through with his plan.
         His plan is simple and the purpose is simpler: he simply wants to show humanity how close it is to the end. He wants people to realize that they could fall at any moment. To merely speak would accomplish nothing. Nobody ever listens to him. Therefore he must do more than speak to get the intensity of his point across.
         He must show them.
         He goes into a large equipment room and begins setting up. Everything he needs has been provided for him via the equipment and contents of the many neatly labeled boxes on shelves throughout the room. The only thing that isn't already in the room is in his pocket. He takes it out and examines it now as he has been doing every since he first laid eyes on it.
         It is a simple token, the size and shape of a coin. It's glossy black surface is of a rock he has never seen before and it's liquid like sheen looks as deep as the ocean. On one side, the smooth finish is unbroken not even by the tiniest of scratches. Only an engraving of the utmost quality mars the other side.
         He loses himself in the object for a while until he breaks away and goes on with his task. The job is hard but by the end of the day, he is done. But due to the late hour, he must wait until the morning. The suspense is treacherous. He stays in the room throughout the night, leaving only once when nature calls. He cannot sleep and the reason for this is not the hard concrete floor on which he attempts to do so. Rather, he is so overwhelmed with excitement from the job he is doing that sleep is forced from him. His position is one of grandeur.
*************************************************
         He looks upon the scene with disgust. Rubble is heaped everywhere and the air is laden with dust. The sounds of an emergency fill the air - sirens, screams, the settling of the massive destruction.
         The bomb went off at 9:02 A.M. on the morning of December the 7th. One hundred twenty-six people were reported missing. Fifty-seven were already dead. By the time the week would end, that number would double. Nobody had known.
         There was no warning.
         He watches as another person, soul eternally gone, body covered by a thin black cloth, goes by and is carried off the scene so it can be laid to rest. He can't help but grimace.
         He passes by an anxious television reporter who must be jumping with excitement inside at the thought of covering such a big story but who somehow keeps calm and composed with an added look of grief on the outside. Disgust is piled onto his grimace.
         He approaches the Do Not Cross line and prepares to cross it. A police officer stops him and he shows his credentials. He is a detective and his papers show just that. Without further delay he crosses the thin yellow line and immediately begins looking around.
         From this close, the destruction is massive. Giant ragged blocks of concrete lay everywhere. Office material is about in turmoil. The scene is one of war. Just from seeing the rubble he can tell where the blast originated from: what used to be a small equipment room near the center of what used to be a building. He carefully approaches the area, careful not to step on anything, anyone.
         Glancing down he sees an innocent face. The young lady is lying partially underneath a big block of concrete but her face is exposed. Her wide, empty eyes shout injustice and he is taken aback. She bears a striking resemblance to his daughter. The similarity is painful. He closes his eyes and walks on.
         He has only taken a few more steps when another detective joins him. In silence they reach the spot of first impact. The destruction here is much worse. Most of the walls were blown away by the blast, made into deadly missiles. The rest have been flattened onto the ground, large flat walls somewhat slanted, depending on what they fell on.
         With disgust, he realizes that the person who did this might still be in here. No one knows for sure yet. In case he didn't die in the blast, his main purpose is to figure out what kind of person would do this. Though he can hardly imagine what went through this man's mind, he begins discussing textbook examples with the other detective.
*************************************************
         He lies in near darkness. He cannot feel anything but he knows that death is near. He has trouble thinking straight but he seems to be underneath a big concrete chunk and the weight of it is quickly draining him of life. He will die soon but he is not afraid. His voice will be heard now with this picture of destruction. He will die a good man.
         He soon hears the crunch of shoes on the rubble. Someone is coming. With one eye, he struggles to see through a small chink in the concrete. Two figures approach. At first they stand still and survey the scene with grim faces. Then they begin discussing him. He can hardly believe they are talking about him. Painful excitement wells up but turns to anger as they begin discussing his motive. They call him mentally diluted. They call him immoral. They call him a victim of low self-esteem. In essence, they call him crazy. His message was not heard. His voice was lost among the many. Nothing will change.
         He dies feeling he has failed.
*************************************************
         He has gone through every textbook example of the common maniac. However, he does not believe that this person was common at all. He believes that this person had a purpose.
         Glancing down he spots movement in a hole of concrete. He approaches and quickly recognizes an eyelid. The eye must have closed just now. The person under here has just died. With some help, he heaves the concrete block off the body. He sees the mangled form of a young man lying in the wreckage beneath it. The face is one of pain and disappointment. He instinctively knows that this was the bomber.
         The dead man's fist is clenched. He kneels down and with a plastic glove, opens it. Inside is a small, polished black token. The unnaturally smooth finish is only marred by one word engraved on one side: STOP.





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