the hammer

I gave a guttural yell as my hammer came chasing down towards this man’s face. Pieces of pink white matter spilling out on the wet cobblestone. The hammer made a crush with every blow as splinters of skull fly towards the dark alleyways wall. I was in a trance telling myself over and over again this needed to be done; that I was doing a good thing, though tears still filled my eyes with the horrific sight of what I’d done. It needed to be done. My tired arm dropped the hammer to the flood. I stood over the mangled body hiding the site with my hands and wepted. Constantly reminding myself I’m a good man. A good man. I gave one last glance at the pulverised face that laid before me and turned to my running car. My car still idled away in the driveway as the night’s heavy rain came down on the roof. Tomorrow the People’s Observer daily will announce two things, one, that it’s the “most rain in 42” and that there was a “vicious murder, more to be announced”. I won’t live to see that paper. My wet blonde hair is still dripping on the black leather of my Mercedes. I reached for the key in the ignition and noticed a small piece of bloodied, hairy flesh still stuck to the back of my hand. Black hair. I flicked it off with disgust. The engine shuts off, killing any noise, leaving me only with my thoughts. Walking through the lobby of my small apartment building things now look different. There’s a hope for this dinghy building. It’s still covered in mold and the once fine wallpaper is still peeling in every corner. But it’s the shine of the future. A better future for her and the little one in her belly. They say it’s going to be a girl, just as beautiful as her mother. The smile that comes from this thought makes the dried blood on my face crack reminding myself I did it for them. Hitting the first step on the two flights I hear the squelch of my boots still filled with water and socks like mud sticking to my feet. Squelch, squelch, squelch. As I reach the first level I see Gustav. Helen Monty's little boy. George, the boy’s father, has been gone for a week now. I hear they use the fat for soap. “Mr Wolf-gang?” the young boy says with a horrified look, not realising he’s dropped his red ball “Everything's just fine, Gus” I say through a broken voice trying to hold off the tears building in my happy yet scared eyes. “Go inside to your mother” I say as I turn to the next flight. Hearing small feet on wooden floor boards running away with haste “Mummy open the door please somethings going on”.