Wondering

I stare at the spreading pool of blood, inspiring all manner of thoughts from the patterns it formed. The childhood I’d had, and that which was lost at the edge of a knife. Of the people the killer had robbed of the memories and thoughts this man possessed. These thoughts I have flow into that of the killer, what’s to blame for the crime he committed?
Society?
Racism?
Parents?

Should blame be cast? Or is this an imprint of humanities own flaws? Regardless of why, an infinite number of possibilities have been extinguished.
Could this man have cured cancer?
Could he have ended poverty?
Or end the flaws that left him so broken on the floor?

Should we ask these questions? Or accept them as fate, for time is lateral and what’s done is done. These thoughts might bring nothing but pain, and do no good, but do we not owe it to think the thoughts that this man can no longer think?
The unceremoniously discarded body is a reminder. That beneath the majesty of the human mind is a human body, as frail as flesh and bone.

The medics arrive. A pointless formality. At least the final image was the eyes of his killer, not a faceless organisation. For eyes of anger are more human than those with no emotion at all. The eyes that only see yet another carcass to take to the morticians, the taxidermists of humans.

The ambulance lights blend into the night sky.

As I stand here and wonder, what if he hadn't of died?