1.
Flashlight? Check. Coffee? Check. Gasoline, matches? Check.
‘You ready?’ The familiar voice rings out of my flip-phone, and it vibrates in my backpack.
‘Mhm. Readier than ever, bud.’ That’s a lie.
‘Good. Wait inside your house, and I’ll pick you up, and you’re gonna get it over with.’
‘Right-o.’ Beep.
Oh my god, why am I agreeing to this? Every time I decide I’m done with this stuff, there’s always someone asking me - a teenager - to do their dirty work for them, and then I’m thrown back into this life once more.
Okay, okay. Let’s get things straight. I’m probably not making the best impression right now, considering the whole hitman thing. If you weren't aware of what was happening, you are now. Anyways, it’s not like I’m doing this pleasure, or money, or something. It’s more of, uh… the people I work for will probably go for my head if I don’t accept my commissions. This entire thing is a discussion for another time, there’s someone pulling into my driveway.
Knock, knock.
That’s my client.
‘Come on in.’ The door creaks open, and in the hallway stands a lanky guy, looks like he’s in his late 40s or something. All I know is, I don’t want to know how long his hair has gone without a wash. That thing looks like brown, crusty spaghetti.
‘Get in the car, lady. Fast as ya can.’ There’s no use trying to resist now, I’m too far in. So, I drag my backpack into his automobile. It’s certainly in better shape than him, that’s for sure. Barely a speck of dust anywhere. I’ll never get people who value their cars over themselves. ‘So, how’re ya tonight?’
‘Not great.’
‘Okay.’
I'm silently begging him to stop trying to make conversation, but he isn’t getting it.
‘How’d’ya like the car, Kamy?’
‘It’s… nice.’ Why is this guy calling me by my actual name? It’s uncomfortable.
‘She’s my pride and joy. Miss Sandy, that’s what I call ‘er. 5 years in the making. My own design, hah.’
I really don’t care. At all. But I’d rather listen to this man ramble on about his precious car than try and kill someone, so I’m trying to savour this the best I can.
*
After a car ride that felt like 20 hours, yet was only about 20 minutes, I’m dropped about half a mile away from the location of the victim.
‘Have fun, m’lady!’ As he drives off, I now feel a new wave of resentment towards this guy crash over me. He’s not taking this seriously at all. People suck.
After a peaceful walk in the dark, (As peaceful as one can get before committing felonies, anyway) I arrive at a small cottage in the woods. Oh well, this one will probably be easy. Nobody around to help if something goes wrong. From what I’ve been told, I’m looking for an old woman, pale, grey-haired, short and frail. Your typical grandma. Apparently, this grandma stole a fifteen-thousand dollars from the lanky dude over the past decade, and spent it all on drugs and impulse shopping. So, yeah, maybe not so much of an innocent old lady than what I imagined from her description. I don’t see how killing her is gonna fix anything, or bring his money back, but rich people can be petty.
The lady’s back door is unlocked, which makes it pretty easy to sneak in, considering there’s quite literally no security measures. Why couldn’t the client do this himself? This is pretty easy, even for a normal person, but people just want others to take the blow if they get caught.
After entering the house, I find myself in a dark kitchen, and I scramble for the flashlight in my unorganised bag, and accidentally spill loads of gasoline on the floor. Damn, I didn’t even know the bottle was open, that could’ve been dangerous. When I turn the flashlight on, I’m met with a rather pretty kitchen, almost out of a fairytale. There’s a mouse in a cage on one of the worktops, and it’s just walking around mindlessly, making a rather annoying squeaking noise. I might mouse-nap it, or something. I mean, the owner’s gonna be dead soon, might as well. So, I take the mouse outside. This whole house is gonna be an oven within a couple of minutes.
I try to quieten my breathing as I look at the house’s floor plan and make my way to the bedroom, trailing small amounts of gasoline behind me. On my way there, I pass by several photo frames of a younger woman with other people. I’m guessing it’s the target. She looks so… happy. Whenever I come across this kinda thing in a target’s house, I feel sick. Not only am ending someone’s life, I’m ruining the lives of their loved ones. And that’s one of the main reasons I want to quit. But I have to go through with this, or the outcome for me will be terrible. The people I work for are tough. I make a mistake in their eyes, they’ll be a lifelong enemy. That’s why I can’t refuse. That’s why I have to murder an elderly woman.
I look through the bedroom door keyhole, she’s in her bed. That’s where I pour the most gasoline. So, I creep inside and begin to empty the canister. ‘Okay, time to finish this.’ I think to myse—
CRASH!
What the hell?! I speed out of the room. Someone’s here, and I need to get out now. I couldn’t tell where the noise came from, but I think my best bet on escape is through the door I entered through. When I get to the kitchen, I was met with… a sight.
‘The fuck? Why is there a puddle of GASOLINE in an old lady’s house?!’
There, on the kitchen floor, I see a girl.
