January 5 - Thoughts And Prayers

There’s a tension in the air, for a moment: the tension of a life, hung in the balance. I take a deep breath. I pull the trigger. 

My target (his name is Paul Rickor, though that doesn’t matter) collapses to the ground. There’s a bullet through his heart now. Very few survive that, and even fewer do when they already live alone. A clean kill, I think to myself, pulling the scope off my rifle. It was a simple job, and it’s done now. 

Somewhere within me, in a part of me I try to keep isolated from my profession, there’s a whisper. It breaches its containment, popping the bubble I hide it in. Clean, sure. But you’ve only made the world worse.

I breathe the long sigh of a professional sharpshooter, lungs attuned to the gentle twitches of my body. This guy, I think back to myself, this guy wasn’t a good guy. Getting rid of him has made some people’s lives better. 

A mind cannot sigh, though mine tries. Sure sure, some people may be happier now. But really, what kind of people even hire a hitman in the first place? They aren’t good people themselves, and making them happier isn’t improving the world. 

My rifle is packed into a sleek metal briefcase at this point, my muscle memory carrying me through the process even as the more conscious parts of me fight with each other. It’s a living, alright?

There’s a pause, while those sealed-up parts of me consider this. I suppose so. It’s hard to reconcile, isn’t it?

“Yeah,” I mutter walking away from my little sniper’s nest. “It is.”