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...