Murder's POV

Should I feel remorse for what I've done? The lives I've taken? The bullets I've spent? Should I feel guilty for what I've done? The spilled blood? The lost souls?

Yet, I feel nothing if a certain perverse pleasure when the target was right on time when the bullet's trajectory was perfect and once the contract is completed.

It's not like I enjoy the sight of spilled blood and fresh corpses. Or do I? A part of me does, I think. A part of me relishes the thrill I get when I pull the trigger and see it enter someone else's body. Sometimes I even like to drag it on; shoot them in the leg and let them bleed to death, or if the target was a kinder person than the rest, I give them instant death with a single shot through the brain. If they give me a hard time, then their death is more painful.

Though I am rarely given a reason, I almost always find out it is due to prior murder, sordid adultery or stolen money. My targets are never nuns or saints and though the decision is opinionated, their death is my task. It was probably written in their genes that they would die a young, violent death. Death is inevitable for the alive. I just bring it to some faster. In a way, I am the Instrument of Death. Look at me, trying to justify my actions like a child.

The basement was more of a bunker, all concrete and no personality. Near the ceiling were long low windows, no wider than the slits in a castle turret but lying on their sides. Without any circulation of air, the stagnant aroma made it dungeonesque. Upstairs I pick up the sleeping sumptuous attraction, her hair still has the redolence of flushed roses in the summertime. 

Taking her down to the basement I set her down, grazing my hand against her delicate smooth skin, one of the sensations I admire, she begins to wake. Covering her mouth like many time before to keep her from screaming, unfastening her shirt and tugging her pants forward. Touching her skin she shutters, and like countless nights before I tear off my pants and shove her against the floor, my excitement getting ahead of me, watching her I couldn't stay composed.

Putting something so big into a petite body she screamed. Thrusting myself in and out of her and her soft body squirming under me felt so right, it felt like heaven, I knew then no one would take her away from me, we would never be separated. I would be the only one to love her... But if only, if only he didn't find out. If he just stayed in bed that night, that one night I had her soft skin against mine.  I just wanted her all to myself, but when he came to her screams I knew I would get my revenge....

I never had time before to reflect like this. Usually, I just go from one contract to the next because I'm one of the best: silent, discreet, cold­blooded and efficient. In other words, I have the perfect personality for it.

I am... no, I must be... cynical, pessimistic. I know love, but only how I can use it to accomplish a task. I know beauty, but only its repulsive undersides and what some are willing to pay, or do... for it. All I want is her body back, especially now that she's older, and I will get her...  I will kill everyone who gets in the way, I will break every wall in my path I will get to her if that is the last thing I do.