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In Cold Blood.

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Introduction

In Cold Blood I was standing in one of New York's vast parks, last nights cold apparent from the white frost that lightly covered the normally green grass. My next victim stood ahead of me, silhouetted by the low, early morning, autumn sun. I made sure that I traced his steps, placing my shoes in the imprints made by his in the grass. This meant that I didn't leave my own footprints and that I also did not crunch the frozen dew on the grass, making my approach that little bit more stealthy. I was yards from him when I reached inside my black Armani raincoat, my hand grasping the gun, placed inside the holster wrapped around my shoulder, the harsh coldness of its metal handle not felt through my black leather gloves. I quickly withdrew the weapon and, with practised ease, took a fix on my target. He was much smaller than me, although most people were, and I could see the wisps of his clouded breath, fogged by the early morning chill, rising up above him. I had to aim slightly downwards to get a fix on the base of his skull. This point would kill the man instantly. I didn't realise until I slowly released it, but I had been holding my breath. I applied minimal pressure to the small piece of metal that would start the chain reaction soon to follow. The 'phut' of the bullet leaving the barrel of the gun was hardly heard, quietened by the silencer screwed into the end of the device. Only the birds seemed to pick up on this sound as they all flocked from their morning resting grounds of a large oak tree nearby. The bullet hit the man at the point where the neck and skull met and his body and, although only momentarily, went taut; almost as if he had been expecting such a thing. ...read more.

Middle

I was sure I had. I then remembered the letter in my coat pocket. It must have been my imagination playing tricks on myself. I closed the door, grabbed the letter from my coat pocket, settled into my reclining leather chair and began to read. "Dear Mr Johnson" it read. People were always formal even though they knew they were writing to a killer. The letter went on to describe the man I was to kill, the manner in which they would like me to do it (I never did do any personal requests) and the time and place. People always seemed to assume that I was uneducated or dim because they always told me every detail, as if I wouldn't research the hit myself. I decided to take this one on as the man to be killed was nothing short of scum. He had raped the woman asking for his death and had beaten her and stolen from her on many occasions. To make matters worse, it was her own uncle. I called the woman, from an untraceable safe cell phone, to tell her I would do the hit, not letting her say anything and hanging up as soon as I had finished. I finally had the chance to take a well deserved shower. It was a Sunday and I would not be working today. While in the shower, I thought of the new target I was to kill. Normally I didn't take on a hit so quickly yet this man was too vile to keep on this Earth any longer. I would squash this cockroach in 3 days time. A smile crept across my face as I thought of eradicating another life that shouldn't have been started at all. I slept that night, a dream filled slumber. My head was filled with memories, old and new, and some, I realise now, were thoughts of events that had not yet happened. ...read more.

Conclusion

There were no people who specifically asked me to kill him. I did it because I wanted to. He was grooming small children, taking them from the streets and teaching them how to become prostitutes. He was using them to gratify his own pleasure, acting like nothing more than a common pimp. For this reason I had to kill him. His family was totally oblivious to what he had done and I think that they may have reconsidered taking my life had they found out his true past. So this was my past catching up with me, it never actually haunted me, just left me for dead. There was no afterlife, no Heaven, no Hell. There was in fact, nothing. Just a black void that I seemed t float around in, left to contemplate my life and the things I had done. The hurt I had caused, the pain visited upon the innocent bystanders of the families of my victims. I also thought of the good I had done, killing all those people, taking their lives so that they could no longer harm anyone else And as I did, I realised that I wouldn't change a thing, if given a second chance at the same life, I would do it all the same as I had, doing everything the way had intended to do. I looked back and saw myself as sort of makeshift hero. Saving the common folk and helping their lives to be lived better. Maybe they would find out of my secret past and declare me a hero, or maybe call me a murderer, tell everyone that what I had done was a terrible thing. In any case, I knew that I had done right and did not care what people thought. The only part of my life that I truly hated, the one thing that stuck in my mind as the thing I would change, would be the manner in which I died. But there was nothing I could do about that now, I could only watch it over and over again, in my minds eye. ...read more.

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