Rain made seductive drumming against the glass window.
The vast city below silently illuminating the ceiling.
Freshly spilt blood dripped slowly down the back of the couch.
The multi-coloured illumination of the television enhanced the mockery of
the macabre scene.
The still smoking gun lay heavy in my numb hand.
My ears still ringing from the loud 'crack-crack-crack' of seconds before.
My heart beat subsided back to a normal pace.
His screaming wife on her knees at my feet. What was her name? Louise?
Elise? Elsie?
I pushed away from her and headed back towards the door. My mind racing.
I took no justification from the fact that I was just "doing my job".
I’d still taken a life in cold-blood.
Is this what means to be an Operative?
Was I really one of the "lucky chosen few"?
Is this Slayers price?
His ‘Truth’?
I flicked the extermination warrant onto the floor at the feet of ‘Donald
Tucker’.
Would every 'grey BPN' be the same as this? Senseless assassinations?
The barrier that TeeVee represented numbed one to senseless violence but
when you stood there, the world turning in ever slowing circles around you
and the realisation hitting home that this wasn't some Contract Killer or a
episode of GoreZoneTM it is real life, me.
My hand shook as I sparked a cigarette, holstered my FEN and headed home
desperately trying to dispel the image of blood and brains splattered across
the wall.
“Slosh™” - my only friend.
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