He looked at his knuckles.

Clenching and unclenching his fist.

His jaw bone flexed.

He threw the cigarette butt out of the window.

And took the wheel.

Scanning the blank land.

His black soul spoke.

He knew where to go.

And what to do.

He neither did or didn't want to go.

He felt nothing about it.

It was what he did.

What decided it or guided him to do it

he would never know.

And didn't need to.

Pain and havoc came to him.

It just happened,

free of will.

Free of any will.

As though it were happening to him.

He was though always the catalyst.

The instrument of fury.