Second Thoughts

The rain comes down from the sky with a vengeance, almost as if some old, dead god was weeping. I lay spread eagled on the bed in the small room staring at the stucco ceiling. Hints of jazz softly whisper from the radio on the side table, barely audible. Listening to the staccato patter of the rain, it's almost cozy. I shift into a sitting position to glance at the digital clock. 1:47 PM. Lightning flashes outside the flats window, with a low roll of thunder following close behind. I reach over to tap the radio, cutting off the music. I lie there just letting it all envelop me. It's the most peaceful I've felt in a while. Somehow, my mind wanders back to the events of this morning. The sky was dark and foreboding at 6 AM when it started to rain. I walked out onto the street, clad in a dark coat. Still groggy with sleep, I stepped over the shattered head of a gargoyle, realizing how long it'd been there. Either the management didn't know, or just didn't care. Probably the latter. I crossed the mostly abandoned street, the smell of wet pavement filling my nostrils. I glance up at the statue in the roundabout. The plaque proclaimed it to be "Major General Maplewood III". Heading down Milk Street, I hardly looked at the surrounding shops. I was walking towards the abandoned warehouse. Some odd crazy is leaning back and forth on the subway steps across the street, muttering. I don't have a good feeling about this. There are two men in shadow, one kneeling, one standing. The latter steps into the light from the ceiling, and I recognize him. He's my informant. A short man in his 40's, dressed in a trench coat, his face hidden behind a hat. "Can you get rid of him?" He gestures to the man kneeling next to him, hands tied behind his back. Nodding almost imperceptibly, I glance at the man I'm supposed to dispose of. I'm the best at what I do. Weapons cannot be traced to me. I don't leave behind bullets or evidence. And my precision is deadly. I'm unique in my business, for many reasons. I walk around behind him, and point a finger gun towards him, my shoes making plodding footsteps that echo across the room. The man is shaking nervously, and the smell of must about the warehouse is abundant. The tugging sensation is there again, as smoke and sparks begin to trail from my hands. "Bang." I say, with a sort of grim humor in my voice. We both don gloves as we drag the body into an old crate in the corner, sealing it for him to be found some other time. The hole in the back of his head is still smoking. A rumble of thunder jolts me out of my memories, rain still tapping away at the window. I light another cigarette.Why am I still thinking about it? It's not my job to dwell on who my marks are. But I still keep going back to it. Did the man have people who cared for him? A friendly brother, a loving daughter, a family? It haunts me. I turn the knob of the radio back up, as If I could drown out my second thoughts and mourning with smooth jazz alone. I start to doze off, with a last thought in my head. I really ought to get a lighter...

The Job

The day began with water. Dripping from the ceiling, it repetitively dropped onto my face as I groggily blinked my eyes. "Eunghh" I grunted as I stumbled up from the bed, pushing the rough cover off of me. What time was it? 6:00 PM. Another humid summer day was coming to an end, and I had slept through most of it. Admittedly, I hadn't gotten a wink of sleep the night before. The kind of business I'm in, you have late hours. Very late.  A fan spun lazily on the ceiling, slowly but surely wafting air currents around the small, somewhat decrepit room. Just my luck, the room I'd needed to rent happened to be the cheapest- and the most run down. But Maplewood Crest wasn't all that bad. One of the benefits, was the excellent view of Room #917 in the now abandoned Little Soldier's Inn across the alleyway. I had gone over to plant the bugs a month before. Unfortunately for them, they'd formed a habit. And forming habits is a most dangerous thing, especially for men such as them. I plodded over to the fridge, the floor changing from brown carpet to tile in the kitchen. The cool feeling of the tile was welcome against the bare skin of my feet. As I pulled out a bottle of water from the fridge, taking a swig, causing soothing water to run down my parched throat. I mused about last night's job. Simply listening to to them talk was easy enough, but it was only the first half of the job. Now, to do something about that dripping. I pulled on some jeans and a shirt before I left my room, and quickly assessed myself in the mirror. I locked eyes with my reflection, staring deep into the hazel orbs. The hallway was dimly lit, and the stairwell even more so, the slightly amber light illuminating the bare minimum necessary for vision. I ran a hand through my close cropped, dark brown hair as I arrived near the top of the stairs. I slowly approached the door, almost hesistant. Room #1146 of the 14th floor was the room directly above mine, #1136, and was almost certainly the source of the water. I lightly rapped on the door. When there was no answer, I eased it open, it being unlocked. I scanned the room to see a deflated water bed surrounded by a growing puddle. Exasperated, I sighed, and returned to my room.


After placing a bucket on the bed to catch the growing amounts of water coming through the ceiling, I sat to read on the couch. The book was on Taoism, one of the many philosophy books on my personal reading list. I tried not to think about the men in #917. You don't think of your marks as people. You don't use their names. Nor do you do anything to personify them. It makes it harder to kill them. A bad conscience is the last thing you want to be dealing with. Daylight was beginning to fade outside the window, sunset approaching. As I sat musing in my thoughts, the power blinked out. Worst of all, the fan stopped moving. I cracked open a window. "The power decides to quit in this goddamn heat?" I thought. In an especially bad mood, I reached for my box of cigarettes in the drawer. I had been trying to quit, but I needed something to relax. Out of force of habit, I searched for a lighter. But then I stopped. I felt just the slightest... tugging sensation. And leaned back into the couch, taking a drag from the single lit cigarette.