Flicker
Flicker
.
_Fenrari
A bullet being fired out of any gun is hurled through the empty space that is air at such a speed that the eventual velocity of it striking into the target that it may (or may not) have been intended to have been fired at. Bullets however aren't the cause of what will have killed the victim, or the wall behind them. It's the intent of the one holding the firearm that is the true danger.
Well to say the least at least most of the time when I fire a bullet. It'll impact with the intended target. I'm not saying that I hit them where I'd like to each time. The number of factors determining a successful, perfectly aimed shot number in the millions from the faintest refraction of light to the draft of the air vents beneath the target.
And then of course there's the issue of retrieving a bullet once you've fired. In my line of work, it's always best to have an exit strategy that involves taking all evidence of my job with me. The casing of each bullet has to be taken and hidden away from prying eyes. They're quite reusable if you bothered to think of them in that manner. The bullet itself is of course a different story. One's that impact flesh degrade slightly as they mold to form around the hardest of the tissue they've come in contact with. If it's skeletal muscle fiber, the clenching of the muscle can inadvertently cause the lead to be drawn deeper within the muscle. Or if you're the unlucky bastard that has one my pretties lodged in his viscera... Well you're shit out of luck now aren't you? If the bullet itself didn't shatter and splinter causing hemorrhaging throughout the impact site, the infection that's likely to follow will probably do you in.
Meh I talk too much. It's just a job like any other. One where some poor bloke or another will end up on the side of the street, dead. Or if not dead yet. Well the scavengers will find him/her/it.
Tonight's job was supposed to be the last one of the week. As it had always been done, a sum of 25,000 Rubies was deposited in my bank account and an envelope magically appeared outside my apartment. The play was the same as always. In the envelope was a name and an address. Dispose as I see fit. Don't leave any traces.
Arwen Landings. He was my prey tonight. Lurex Hotel Room 1312
It's not like I relish in killing or anything. Or the death. Or the potential of getting setup one of these days and ending in jail or dead. Not like anyone would be sad to see me go. I'm just a ghost after all. That's why people hire me. But yeah I don't kill to survive. I do it because I like watching the last light within someone fade out. I'll swear to you that as someone dies, there's this glimmer of sorts. It's like a spark. Just before you actually pass it flares up for the faintest of moments and as you gaze into it... Something magical happens. And then it well just ends.
*_
When I got to the door of the hotel; I was ready. The handgun was ready and the safety, off. I wondered how this would play out. I'd knock on the door. Landings would ask who it was. I'd probably lie and say the concierge or something. He'd open the door; I'd smile and snuff out his flame. The silencer on the gun would make it sound as at most if rain had smacked against the windows. Not that anyone would over hear. No one ever did.
*knock*
"Coming!" A voice replied. Not deep like I had expected. But death doesn't have a favorite age when it comes to my profession.
Breathe, concentrate, shoot, exhale.
It happened in that second before I exhaled. The bullet did all it was designed to and struck my target directly in the chest. The boy wasn't more than a kitten. The red impact wound of the bullet was making a flower pattern on his shirt. Like some seriously fucked up calendula that suddenly sprouted out of nothing. But he wasn't dead.
In pain, probably to definitely. Dead? No. The bullet entered his left lung and cleanly exited the other side. He'll be aspirating blood for the next few hours. And depending if he's got good luck and/or if the bullet nicked any bigger vessels... He might live yet.
So I guess the job isn't done then. It's almost sad that I have to do what I do. Ending a pathetic soul like his. He's clutching the wound, trying to scream in pain. But the bloody coughs are starting. Another bullet would do the trick. One that won't miss it's mark. One that will either sever the spinal cord, or pierce the heart.
And then he looks at me. There it is the fire that I've been wanting. But this one is refusing to go out. It flickers and jumps. Death won't take him?