Mercyful halfsleeper

Sometimes...

Mercy appears as a bullet with a personal touch: Your A name engraved into its cold, metal body. Inside a cold, metal revolver. Below a cold, metal bed. Lying in a cold, metal building.

Simple as a it comes, the shiny tridmensional form rises upon a pitch-black abyss with a microdimensional dawn at the end of the gun's circular-shaped mouth.

You stare deeply into it, as the razor-sharp air is cutting your insides in this beautiful morning whose sun is shy and tries not to disturb you that much while peeking in your window.

It has a chilling effect on you: Promotes inner peace at a quite low price. You can't always find a sales on these old-fashioned weapons of the last ages where people were actually alive.

In this time, you were nothing but a living corpse dumped in this modern graveyard of time. Nothing bad, not even noticeable: There were a lots like you and they didn't mind at all. 

In fact, maybe I am one of those rotting zombies which roam into the bright darkness that surrounds this realm.

In fact, am I an awake being? How could I measure my level of awareness?

Yet, you may say I am a demi-dormeur (concept that fancy french whose surname I can't recall once told me) or a halfsleeper, in modern english; a person who isn't awake yet it is realizing it isn't asleep as well. 

The passenger between two worlds, quite away, falling into the endless void of non-existence.

[...]

You fell asleep.

And suddenly the alarm's clock appeared as fast as your sudden realization:

... yet I pulled the trigger for you, giving away a personal piece of mercy, the parachute for the endless void you were trapped in.

No need to thank me... yet, you didn't tell me nothing anyways.

~

Parce que je t'aimé beaucoup que je t'ai envoyé ma seule fils, dont le nom tu as partagé avec elle, à te racheter de ce monde du péché où nous deux vivons.

Maintenant, je me trouve seule sans toi ni elle, comme le solitaire demidormeur pieux qui a devenu fou grâce à la balle de mon sang...

Parfois.