You Are Not Like the Other Four

index finger pushing button

AS THE RECENTLY promoted finger raised upwards, it was clearly a good finger. At worst it may have poked someone or been up a nostril.

Generally, your run of the mill index finger living an average life, knowing its place and getting on exceptionally well with the rest of the digits. It was perhaps a little touchy, but then all fingers are with everything being so close to the knuckle.

Raised and ready to leave a fingerprint the finger moved toward a button on a console, which lay seductively under a plastic flap to prevent it being accidentally pushed.

Through headphones the owner received instructions to fire, which were relayed then confirmed.

The flap was deftly flicked back. And there it was. A red button – begging in an anti-Prozac way – to be depressed.

Duly, with little hesitancy the finger hovered momentarily, then with a disappointing silence down it went. No sound effect. No click. Nothing.

On a monitor a timerĀ  began. After 14.6 seconds an explosion could be seen on screen. Grey clouds of debris puffed outwards, as if the buildings, including a school, had just coughed after trying their first cigarette.

Twenty six dead. An entire generation gone. Ten kids obliterated. Nine women and seven men. Bodies that would never find their ways into a coffin.

Four of the fingers began to distance themselves (as much as fingers can) from their old friend, Index, who unknown to most, was now a mass murderer. Unfortunately, the host had simply carried out his orders; unquestioning and obedient. He never saw the face of his victims, never knew the names – so how could it possibly haunt him like it would if he shot or stabbed them one by one?

 

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