Truth told, Jack wasn't entirely sure how he had lived this long.
When he first moved to Murderville, he had this quiet but persistent feeling that all he would earn for his travels was a dirt nap. Crazy thought, sure, but everyone was entitled to have one in their life. Sometimes they payed off, whether on gambling tables, or school desks, or even the bed of a woman of ill-repute.
Other times, they cost a man dearly.
A house.
A wife.
A future.
Yet despite the recurring notion, Jack still managed to live in Murderville without a ticket to an early grave.
He wasn't sure what to do with the time. At first, he humored himself by listening to what the townsfolk said, but the talk became too rampant. Too quick. Too familiar. And he had never been one for quick words, let alone meaningful ones. When the door to social interaction closed, he began to tend to his home. A throw-rug here, a thrift store picture there, and always some light maintenance wherever it was required. But even then, the solitary life became cumbersome. Pointless. After all, with a population counter always dwindling down, what point was there in maintaining a home meant for the next resident of Murderville?
Over time, as he lived on to see more and more people go the way of all flesh, he wondered if there was more to this thought process than before.
Realistically speaking, a resident like him existed in this town to provide fodder for its inhabitants, killer and townsfolk alike. If he wasn't implicated in the deaths of a dearly beloved inhabitant, then he allowed the killer to maintain their healthy diet of blood and mayhem. It wasn't a perfect system, but it was a functional one. And yet, no one had really payed any mind to him. No accusations, no knife in the dark, no lynching... Jack realized that the first few nights spent wide awake to greet killer or crazed townspeople were all for naught, since it became increasingly apparent that he had been largely ignored by the populace. But was there more to it?
Indeed, perhaps there was more to the idea of a functioning system of death and deception. A machine can always perform the same action, so long as all its pieces are in the right place. Any extra cogs or springs would only serve to hamper the device. They are usually left on the table: ready for use, but for an unknown date.
Which is why, when the killer had quietly put a bullet into his back in broad daylight and then left without saying a word, instead just quickening his pace and not spending even a second to savor his handiwork, Jack began to find a peace in his death. He was an extra piece, probably reserved for another day, maybe even another machine entirely. Perhaps his purpose could be found elsewhere.
Even still, as Jack looked down at the grass of his lawn through thick, nearly glassed eyes, another recurring thought went through his dying mind. He had the time. His shooting had happened seven minutes ago.
And, truth told, Jack wasn't entirely sure how he had lived this long.
