It would be soon.
It was strengthening.
The urge teased his soul, jabbing at his heart. He passionately believed it was the right thing to do, but could he do it? The proverbial devil and angel on each shoulder were at odds again. There was now an intensification he was struggling to contain. It was only a matter of time until he succumbed. Of this he was certain. Vulnerability accompanied the urge, an apprehension of the inevitable, of the imminence, and of the severe consequences.
After all, someone had to do something.
He stared at his reflection in the vertical mirror, psyching himself up, before purposely pulling on a pair of black leather gloves, a faint tremble of his hands, more in anticipation than fear. However, he knew fear was good, for it provided focus. An unwavering determination expunged any latent self doubt. He tied the laces of his walking boots tightly before rolling the hem of his black combat pants over them. The black trench coat was his funeral coat and a cloak of grief engulfed him as he put it on, resurrecting memories, reinforcing the urge. The Navy blue woollen hat completed his attire and he gazed into the full length mirror musing that his uniform was ironically not too dissimilar to that worn by the enemy – colour-wise any way, a tactical choice for both he and them.
He slid the retractable baton up his left sleeve and headed for the door, perversely relieved that he had finally chosen, and the deliberations were concluded. He hesitated momentarily to consider his last minutes as a respected member of society, of a society that was on its’ last legs like an ailing animal, but he was the antidote. Picturing his brother a surge of emotion engulfed him, though he didn’t slam the door. After all, there was control…