Wrote this last night when sleep would not come... its trash, sure, but I had fun writing it, might just carry on for a chapter or two more, any views? Please don't mention the word cliché, I already had it in mind whilst writing it...
X empties the last of the aftershave onto his one cupped hand, each drop lingering at the bottles rim. He waits patiently, barely breathing. The room is dark, but for dawns light edging itself across the bedroom floor.
In a room beneath his own a baby whines.
He slows his breathing again, closes his eyes and pushes his feet onto the cold tile floor, until he toes lose life and grow pale- The baby's heartbeat is at first feint, he catches only the fourth of fifth beat. His lungs hurt, he becomes dizzy, the room is a blur, everything is calm, slowed, the world is at a halt- The baby's heart is in his hand, each beat vibrates in his palm. So small, unblemished, a fragile egg in the jaws of a bear.
A bomb explodes beneath him, aftershave, has escaped through his fingers and onto the floor. The heart is gone, the baby now silent, dawns lights now floods the floor.
X checks the clock, he has five hours left, he should sleep, last night his movement was flawed, he rubs the wound on his right arm, dried blood flakes and parachutes in a lingered twirl. He knows no less the eight hours of sleep will suffice, anything less is suicide, last night was a first, ever since graduation he had mastered sleep, as he had everything else in life, he could close his eyes and enter sleep within minutes, and wake on command, ready as a spring lamb.
It was the girl, plain, lank hair, ridiculously dressed, pathetic shards of oval hanging from her ears, and eyes... eyes that entered him as though the twenty odd years of discipline meant nothing, eyes that sped deep into him electrifying long dismantled nerves.. eyes that sought bloomed languid caterpillars into distracting butterflies that danced drunk in his stomach... eyes that nearly got him killed.
eyes were the first distraction he had quelled more or less straight after training had begun- even his first kill, staring straight into his mothers eyes as he calmly sliced the knife through her butter-soft neck, was like looking at a blank wall, her confused, pleading eyes meant nothing-( he had learnt to understand this look years later whilst reading poorly executed murder mysteries) she knew this, so closed them even before death itself pulled the shutter down for good. It was the same look they had all given him, the why look, then the what look, then the defeated, somewhat acceptive look. So why now, why this complete stranger? he had kicked to death animals ( when young) more inviting than her.
He heard the footsteps before they had even embarked the first set of steps, he tensed like a cat readying itself for attack- by sound of foot on floor and speed of approach he calculated age and weight, little need for concern, Man, 40-50, overweight and afraid. The envelope came through the bottom of the door and the deliverer was quicker in his decent. X glided to the door, the floorboards making no sound. Seventeenth this month he thought, things were hotting up. Not bothering with the particulars, age, address, siblings, husband, job, favourite restaurant, previous relationships... X unfolded the photo, and for the second time this week, his heart hiccuped, unremarkable and with a false smile, the girls eyes entered him and the butterflies awoke.
