The Hitman
A man sits alone on a couch, his heart as cold as the TV dinner he eats with little emotion. As he waits for his next call he stares at the blank TV screen vacantly. He hasn't paid the bill, but he doesn't care, he has other things to worry about. When the phone rings suddenly he doesn't start, his control perfect. After a brief exchange he gets up and pulls out a black bag. It was a good bag, it has carried what it has needed to since... he quickly suppresses the memory like the bag he just shut and walks out the door, not bothering to lock it. He returns hours later and heads straight to the sink. He has to wash the blood off of his hands and clothes. It does not bother him, for he has done it before, now it is just an inconvenience. He heads back to the couch to finish his TV dinner, work always makes him hungry. When he finishes he grabs the wad of cash from his pocket and reaches for a box from under the couch. As he gets it out it slips and falls onto the ground, the lid falling off... he must be tired. He reaches down to pick it up... then stops short. His hand paused above the wallet starts to quiver slightly. A feeling in his throat which he hasn't felt in a long time returns. As he chokes back that overwhelming urge, he glances away and slams the lid back down. But not before a single tear slips out and falls to the picture of his family. He stuffs the money in the box and shoves it under the couch. Gaining control once more, he returns to staring at the TV, waiting for the next call.Short story by Michael G
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Written on 2007-08-30 at 16:53
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