sprinted.
It didn't feel like spring was so far away, the sky more blue than cloudy. The grass was still faded and brown, but otherwise... the park looked exactly the same.
Especially the spot I'd unconsciously approached.
Had it been unconscious?
Heaving, I grabbed the tops of my thighs and hunched over. My chest argued with me, acting like breathing was not what it wanted to do. I ignored it, staring straight at the spot on the ground just yards away.
There was nothing to signify that the body had been there. But I knew.
Since the day I'd pulled the trigger and killed Frank...
I couldn’t let it go.
Rubbing perspiration from my face, I stood straighter. The park was sparse, nothing like the packed day in June. Someone was walking a dog; I heard it bark. It reminded me of the gun blast.
Curling my hand at my hip, I felt the invisible weapon. The idea of it made me itch, boiling in my tendons. I wanted to crush the handle, feel the weight. I knew, as I turned and jogged from the park, that I would go home and clean my gun.
I'd been handling it every night that I wasn't wasted on booze.
You need to stop this, I told myself flatly. This can't be healthy.
Telling myself this wasn't new. I'd tried to hammer it into my skull for months. I had debated seeing a therapist, but imagining the conversation had been enough to put me off.
Yes, that's right. I keep visiting the spot where I murdered someone. Oh, no. Not the first man I ever killed—just the last.
Oh? You're going to need to call the cops?
Well, thanks for your time!
I was too burnt to run the miles back to my place. This time, I flagged down a taxi.
Watching the city creep by through the foggy window, I felt—was lonely the word? Detached. That was better.
When I was younger, I'd felt like this. Back then, I'd had reasons to withdraw into myself. I imagine all kids cope with rough shit that way.
Then Jacob had arrived in my tiny world. Our blood oath had given me gravity. Jacob, of all people, was at my side and ready to talk.
That wasn't the problem. I wasn't craving human interaction. What I was lacking these days was something more encompassing.
Now that I wasn't a contract killer...
I didn't have a purpose.
Paying the taxi driver, I shut the door and headed into the apartment. I took the stairs, long strides that skipped a step at a time. I wanted to get away from my depressing realization. Alcohol didn't do it, sex didn't do it, and literal running was futile.
But I still tried.
Inside, I threw my sweater onto the couch. My shoes left wet smudges on the wood floor; I ignored them. Almost possessed, I entered my bedroom. There was a pair of black panties by the side of the bed, I just kicked them aside. The woman they belonged to wouldn't come back for them.
Tracing my fingers down the side panel of my bed's headboard, I found the indent an inch up from the shaggy rug. A little pressure, and the secret cover popped off. Inside the hollow bed frame, I stored a number of things. The Ruger Mark Two was what I retrieved first.
Bringing it with me into the living room, I also carried a bottle of oil, a rag, and my tools. Reaching the coffee table, I shoved everything on it.
There was a rhythm to taking the gun apart. My fingers were practiced, unscrewing and twisting at the smooth metal. Surgical precision, I had the Ruger dismantled in minutes.
I could have done it faster, but I savored this process.
Polishing the barrel, I hummed softly. The vibration in my pocket demanded my attention. Digging the device out, I saw Jacob's name, then tapped the button and shoved the phone between my shoulder and ear. “Hey man,” I said, going back to cleaning. “What's up?”
“Just checking in.” His voice had an echo. I knew he was in the basement at the bar. “Did a few errands today. What about you, what are you up to?”
Glancing at the partial-gun, I held it to the light. It shimmered. “You know. The usual.”
“Right. Got it.” Jacob
It didn't feel like spring was so far away, the sky more blue than cloudy. The grass was still faded and brown, but otherwise... the park looked exactly the same.
Especially the spot I'd unconsciously approached.
Had it been unconscious?
Heaving, I grabbed the tops of my thighs and hunched over. My chest argued with me, acting like breathing was not what it wanted to do. I ignored it, staring straight at the spot on the ground just yards away.
There was nothing to signify that the body had been there. But I knew.
Since the day I'd pulled the trigger and killed Frank...
I couldn’t let it go.
Rubbing perspiration from my face, I stood straighter. The park was sparse, nothing like the packed day in June. Someone was walking a dog; I heard it bark. It reminded me of the gun blast.
Curling my hand at my hip, I felt the invisible weapon. The idea of it made me itch, boiling in my tendons. I wanted to crush the handle, feel the weight. I knew, as I turned and jogged from the park, that I would go home and clean my gun.
I'd been handling it every night that I wasn't wasted on booze.
You need to stop this, I told myself flatly. This can't be healthy.
Telling myself this wasn't new. I'd tried to hammer it into my skull for months. I had debated seeing a therapist, but imagining the conversation had been enough to put me off.
Yes, that's right. I keep visiting the spot where I murdered someone. Oh, no. Not the first man I ever killed—just the last.
Oh? You're going to need to call the cops?
Well, thanks for your time!
I was too burnt to run the miles back to my place. This time, I flagged down a taxi.
Watching the city creep by through the foggy window, I felt—was lonely the word? Detached. That was better.
When I was younger, I'd felt like this. Back then, I'd had reasons to withdraw into myself. I imagine all kids cope with rough shit that way.
Then Jacob had arrived in my tiny world. Our blood oath had given me gravity. Jacob, of all people, was at my side and ready to talk.
That wasn't the problem. I wasn't craving human interaction. What I was lacking these days was something more encompassing.
Now that I wasn't a contract killer...
I didn't have a purpose.
Paying the taxi driver, I shut the door and headed into the apartment. I took the stairs, long strides that skipped a step at a time. I wanted to get away from my depressing realization. Alcohol didn't do it, sex didn't do it, and literal running was futile.
But I still tried.
Inside, I threw my sweater onto the couch. My shoes left wet smudges on the wood floor; I ignored them. Almost possessed, I entered my bedroom. There was a pair of black panties by the side of the bed, I just kicked them aside. The woman they belonged to wouldn't come back for them.
Tracing my fingers down the side panel of my bed's headboard, I found the indent an inch up from the shaggy rug. A little pressure, and the secret cover popped off. Inside the hollow bed frame, I stored a number of things. The Ruger Mark Two was what I retrieved first.
Bringing it with me into the living room, I also carried a bottle of oil, a rag, and my tools. Reaching the coffee table, I shoved everything on it.
There was a rhythm to taking the gun apart. My fingers were practiced, unscrewing and twisting at the smooth metal. Surgical precision, I had the Ruger dismantled in minutes.
I could have done it faster, but I savored this process.
Polishing the barrel, I hummed softly. The vibration in my pocket demanded my attention. Digging the device out, I saw Jacob's name, then tapped the button and shoved the phone between my shoulder and ear. “Hey man,” I said, going back to cleaning. “What's up?”
“Just checking in.” His voice had an echo. I knew he was in the basement at the bar. “Did a few errands today. What about you, what are you up to?”
Glancing at the partial-gun, I held it to the light. It shimmered. “You know. The usual.”
“Right. Got it.” Jacob
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