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He lets out his breath slowly

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He lets out his breath slowly, in the cold air it forms a grey mist in front of him which rapidly clears and is replaced. His eyes regularly survey the surrounding area, picking out details on the house imperceptible to the untrained eye. He sighs loudly as if to break the shattering silence, flicks open his petrol lighter and brings it slowly to his mouth to light the awaiting cigarette. He inhales deeply, feeling his body relax whilst his mind remains alert. Every few minutes he becomes tense as a car passes on the dirt track which runs nearby, he contorts into a crouch, glancing quickly at the road whilst remaining camouflaged in the scrub in which he has chosen to wait. Once assured that the passing car is not the one he is awaits he sits on the damp ground, stretching his legs, leaving long indentations in the grass. He caresses his rifle, admiring the cool steel, the loving craftsmanship, he looks, as always, straight down the barrel to check for blockages. He does not consider his safety, if it is his fate to die he will die. ...read more.


It clings like a friend, the only pure thing in this Godforsaken place and he has been forsaken with it. His ability in his chosen field is unparalleled, he hurts with a deadly accuracy, leaving families bereft, children fatherless. He will kill any person, for any reason, in any place. He feels no regret, he needs it, it is like a narcotic, morbidly fascinating. He is reminded of his task, of what he really is, by a sound that has infiltrated the silence. A steely ruthlessness sets into his eyes. An expensive looking black car pulls into the driveway, it also is stained with the dirt that has gathered in pools around the house. He crouches. The engine is cut, the key turned in the ignition. A man climbs out of the drivers seat, carefully avoiding the muddy areas to save his perfectly cut suit. He walks to the passenger door and slowley opens it. Her legs swing out first, cautiously placing her feet on the ground, a grimace of distaste colours her face. He pulls her to her feet as she glances around her, letting the location sink in. ...read more.


She screams. It is a bitter sound, filthy, desperate, enraged. With one final despairing moan her skull caves in, her eyes roll back into her head. The assassin cradles his gun lovingly, satisfied at last. Unhurridly he places it back into its case and kicks the lid shut. The rush of adrenalin that had streaked, like lightening, through his body as it always did once he has made his kill is beginning to subside. It leaves him feeling revolted, his body aches from the cramped position and the damp. He hates himself. He hates the pleasure that he takes at killing. He is judge jury and executioner; but it is only the execution he loves. He surveys the area he has inhabited, minutes have merged into hours, he kicks at the damp grass; the indentations become indecipheral. All signs of his precence are cleared swiftly. His emotions, supressed for so long, struggle to rise to the surface. Dementia starts to kick in, the bloody image of his father laughs in his mind, he whispers to himself, 'remind me... remind me...remind me of what i am.' He desperatly tries to supress a malevolent giggle. Shivering he half-heartedly he tugs at his dog collar and contemplates his return to the vicarage. ...read more.

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