The Following is just something i cooked up last night and thought i'd post it as i haven't in a while:
The Beginning
It’s dark now, freezing cold too. My fingerless black gloves are just for show at this rate so I keep my hands shoved into the padded pockets of my leather jacket.
I can see the whole city from up here, the tall buildings dwarfed by the one I sit on top of like a classroom full of young pupils looking up at their teacher. There are the distant moving lights of cabs (the only vehicles on the streets at this time of night), hundreds of them scattered below the dark cloudless sky.
At least it won’t snow, but what is an advantage with the lack of clouds is also a disadvantage. What if the trigger freezes? I unzip my jacket and make sure my holster is well shielded; I zip it back up again.
For a little while my inner child plays with the affect my warm breath has on the cold air; there’s still time for this. I check my watch to confirm, just above my bunched white knuckles tucked between my leather sleeve and my nylon gloves. It reads 00:30. I have fifteen minutes.
I sit shivering for a bit longer; a plane soars majestically overhead, two red lights blinking in the distance. Those lights say so much, happy parents, excited children, Christmas holidays, relatives, warm fires and merry laughter, none of it for me.
I check my watch again. It’s almost time. I draw my left hand from its pocket and open my jacket once more; with my right hand I reach in and take it from its holster. I leave it on my lap and hold it there with my right whilst retrieving a pouch from my jeans with my left. I take the silencer out and twist it onto the barrel.
I check again, 00:42. My hands began to shake violently; I lift them up and tense them until they’re still. I’m not going to let them fuck this all up for me.
Once I’m fully composed I tuck the silencer’s pouch back into my jeans and stand up clenching the skeletal grip of my Walther PPK. Leaning into the wall I’ve been sitting at for the past two hours I pull my sleeve back over my knuckles, hiding the top half of the pistol whilst leaving its lengthened black barrel exposed. Now ready, I press myself against the solid concrete wall and do some more waiting.
I no longer need my wristwatch. In my head I can imagine him climbing the clanging iron steps with his box of cigarettes in hand. He gets to the top and halts for a moment to button up his grey trench coat, as always. Then I picture him reaching for the handle of the steel door and I hear the sound of it creaking slowly and defiantly downwards and then the click and it swings out. I’m perfectly hidden from his view behind the door, as always.
He walks out and takes a cigarette from the box; reaching for his lighter with his free hand he tilts his chin down against his neck and attempts to light it. I inhale slowly, exhaling with my first step as I slowly push the door back eyes always on my target. I take the gun out from my sleeve and walk up. I’m two feet from him when he turns slightly to the side, he doesn’t notice me all in black as he’s still concentrating on lighting the damned cigarette. I raise my arm slowly and tense my trigger finger at his exposed temple, in my head I count: 1, 2. And then pull. A sharp ‘Putt’ sound and then a crumpled heap falls to the ground. The barrel is smoking at my side, his cigarette isn’t. I kick him over with my boot. His eyes are open, at the far right of his temple, a black dot trickles. My Job is done and five hours later I’m on a train two hundred miles away.
I can see the whole city from up here, the tall buildings dwarfed by the one I sit on top of like a classroom full of young pupils looking up at their teacher. There are the distant moving lights of cabs (the only vehicles on the streets at this time of night), hundreds of them scattered below the dark cloudless sky.
At least it won’t snow, but what is an advantage with the lack of clouds is also a disadvantage. What if the trigger freezes? I unzip my jacket and make sure my holster is well shielded; I zip it back up again.
For a little while my inner child plays with the affect my warm breath has on the cold air; there’s still time for this. I check my watch to confirm, just above my bunched white knuckles tucked between my leather sleeve and my nylon gloves. It reads 00:30. I have fifteen minutes.
I sit shivering for a bit longer; a plane soars majestically overhead, two red lights blinking in the distance. Those lights say so much, happy parents, excited children, Christmas holidays, relatives, warm fires and merry laughter, none of it for me.
I check my watch again. It’s almost time. I draw my left hand from its pocket and open my jacket once more; with my right hand I reach in and take it from its holster. I leave it on my lap and hold it there with my right whilst retrieving a pouch from my jeans with my left. I take the silencer out and twist it onto the barrel.
I check again, 00:42. My hands began to shake violently; I lift them up and tense them until they’re still. I’m not going to let them fuck this all up for me.
Once I’m fully composed I tuck the silencer’s pouch back into my jeans and stand up clenching the skeletal grip of my Walther PPK. Leaning into the wall I’ve been sitting at for the past two hours I pull my sleeve back over my knuckles, hiding the top half of the pistol whilst leaving its lengthened black barrel exposed. Now ready, I press myself against the solid concrete wall and do some more waiting.
I no longer need my wristwatch. In my head I can imagine him climbing the clanging iron steps with his box of cigarettes in hand. He gets to the top and halts for a moment to button up his grey trench coat, as always. Then I picture him reaching for the handle of the steel door and I hear the sound of it creaking slowly and defiantly downwards and then the click and it swings out. I’m perfectly hidden from his view behind the door, as always.
He walks out and takes a cigarette from the box; reaching for his lighter with his free hand he tilts his chin down against his neck and attempts to light it. I inhale slowly, exhaling with my first step as I slowly push the door back eyes always on my target. I take the gun out from my sleeve and walk up. I’m two feet from him when he turns slightly to the side, he doesn’t notice me all in black as he’s still concentrating on lighting the damned cigarette. I raise my arm slowly and tense my trigger finger at his exposed temple, in my head I count: 1, 2. And then pull. A sharp ‘Putt’ sound and then a crumpled heap falls to the ground. The barrel is smoking at my side, his cigarette isn’t. I kick him over with my boot. His eyes are open, at the far right of his temple, a black dot trickles. My Job is done and five hours later I’m on a train two hundred miles away.
