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The Assassin.

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The Assassin It was mid-winter and the last few rays of sun were slowly being drained by the bleak horizon. Jet black rain clouds engulfed the area and vision was limited by the besieging fog. He lay there silently, motionless, only moving now and again to remove the potent sweat from his heavy brow. The rain began. The arid soil around him quickly became damp and awkward. He didn't move. The bush that shielded him from view and from the elements, glistened in the ever growing moonlight. He still didn't move. A wooden cabin stood in front of him, neglected, absorbing the moonlight. The wood was beginning to rot and a pungent mist leaked out of the dying timber. ...read more.


It was the same car that was there on that horrid day. The red paint was still embedded in the car's shattered wing mirror. As the azure blue boot passed him, he noticed something unusual. On the soil-ridden tyres there was a faint touch of red paint: the red paint that brought him there, the paint that was to change his world. It stopped. The whirring of the motor and the chugging of the exhaust were halted in the turn of a shiny chrome key. The car door scraped open and a black trouser leg appeared out of the opening, hitting the ground with a distinct thud. He peered closer to take a look at the contender, the one who thought he had it. He wasn't going to have this, and deep down inside he knew it. He'd show him. ...read more.


He knew he had won. Out of his exposed chest blood dripped down the assassin's hand. Blood gargled in his mouth as he slowly witnessed the life drain from the helpless body. He had won. Owls shrieked across the lonely moor as it hit him. He realised that this was the end. All he had to do now was escape quietly, leaving no trace of his being. He wiped the blade on the old man's coat and wrapped it in his guilt-ridden gloves. The blood disappeared into a veined network of leather. He yanked the chain holding the key from the lifeless corpse's neck and turned. He had the one thing he came for, his thing that kept him going. He vanished into the dark mist and left no trace but the tracks hidden in the moist mud. He had won. Robert Allen Queen Elizabeth Grammar School Original Writing Robert Allen 11PM ...read more.

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