A taste of rage

Like dipping one's hand in boiling oil, from fingers to wrist the agony spread clearly, warmly and ever suddenly, difference was it all started in his shoulder, and Nicolas saw red.

He witnessed the mountains but didn't appreciate them anymore, saw the brush but what of it? Nic turned to look up, vaguely the man sat there blending into the unappreciated landscape and Nicolas even forgot he had a rifle.

He let out a bloody roar and darted out of the sniper's sights when he loaded over the bolt action rifle, he didn't have to see the man anymore, he marked him, his target was there, just up a few meters, and death was upon him.

Instincts worked instead of reason as Nicolas charged up the side of the mountain, using his hands in harmony with his feet to speed up his climb, bobbing and weaving from bush to rock, making the second shot of the rifle miss him.