The house was a small detached bungalow in a state of disrepair; belonging to a middle-aged lady, afraid of the outdoors. The curtains were drawn, and the nets were extremely discoloured. Strangulating vines of ivy twisted and turned round the house, clenching it tightly in its possession.Through this tangled mass of plants a shed protruded from the ground, unlike the house the rain highlighted its wooden walls and bounced neatly off its glassed windows but the roof had seen better days and a glance through any hole would have seen a shimmer of gold. A narrow glass door acted as the entrance to the grungy house. The wood holding the windows was extremely decayed, and was in an urgent need of replacement. The bungalow stood alone, suffocated by huge, shadowing trees. The bungalow also possessed a small and very mucky garden. The amount of weeds implanted within the filthy soil looked as though the owner seemed very fond of them. The skies were beginning to roar, as the sparks of lightning struck powerfully, the dark, winter clouds. Suddenly, the deafening noise of a busted exhaust filled his ears. Yet he, very calmly, prepared for his shot.
Gradually, his victim approached her house.
“This is it,” he said to himself.
The car was a ’93 model FORD Fiesta. It was a dark red colour. Some of the paint on the sides was rusted, and was flaking off with the rain. The car expectedly slowed down as she struggled across the rock-strewn drive. With immense precaution he prepared himself for the big finale. He then delayed the shot as he was aware that his victim had to get her bag from the front passenger side of the car, and then the driver’s door flung open. A clap of lightening posed as a threat in the background. She stepped out the car and slammed the door. He caught his first glimpse of the victim as a pair of feet tapped on the floor in a rhythm to the wooden front door. She was looking around, her back to the howling wind. Looking back at the bushes she squinted, for a moment her face expressed a quizzical look. She was looking at the bush in which he was hiding, suddenly as if to shake the image of a man in the field, she shook her head and began to make her way to the shabby front door. His timing had to be impeccable. He checked his watch, it was 9.37. He would be done and out of there by 9.50.
As she gently inserted her key into the lock, he waited. She dropped her bag. He waited. Timing was one of the many vital qualities that he had learnt to have power over. His body relaxed. She lifted her bag, her position made her a perfect target-just a single bullet.
His arm was raised. His finger poised on the trigger, ready to strike. He fired.
The shot killed her with a revolting wound to the back of the head. Her body crumpled to the ground. Within minutes her body was drained of blood. She lay there motionless. One push of the trigger, and her world had been snatched from her. I wasted not my valuable minutes and swiftly concealed all indications of my presence. Before taking my leave I took one last look at her. The remnants of her brain poured out of her head endlessly. It was a sight to see. Who would have ever believed that this blood-spattered corpse would make me a million pounds richer? So precious was her life to her, and others, that somebody wanted her dead!
