He fell over onto his side, never to stand up again.
The bullet had found its mark.
The fierce, screaming villagers were not far behind.
As he lay dying, the malevolent force that had possessed him for three long years started to ebb;
the Spirit of the Man returned to control as the power of the curse faded.
He thought sadly of all the harm he had done, all the murder he had committed--
and he wept.
He recalled in pitiful consolation how he had always managed
to resist the relatively weak but cruel, willful impulse to kill small animals in passing.
He remembered being a young man, once--
with heart and dreams...
When the angry crowd stormed the spot and found him, they yelled in triumph at his death.
They had been terrified and grief-stricken.
They would not, perhaps could not, recognize even nominally--
that the Being they looked upon lying dead on the ground--
was not without a measure of nobility.
Written Content G.A.M. cc
The Lonely Wolf Yurry Bezrukov