The Poison Morality Read Free Page A

that was the last gift she received.  She didn’t know where they came from.  In the matter of survival, it became unimportant.  Then it became second nature but now, she shook her head clearing her thoughts.  First, to familiarize herself with the face, so when it was time, she could recognize him without a reference, her memory was excellent so one look was generally all it took. 
    The photo of the next victim stared back at her.  His cheesy smile and white teeth flashed.  There was something familiar about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. 
    She had no interest in looking at them anymore than she had to but this man reminded her a little too much of …...  She tapped her fingers trying to figure it out, and then suddenly it hit her, she cringed from the memory.  He reminded her of Declan. 
    Declan, the memory of him vexed her.  She hadn’t thought about him in a long time.  The dark hair, beady eyes, and smirk on the face of this man were almost exactly the same as Declan’s.  Maybe that’s why he seemed familiar to her.
    She should have put the photo back in the envelope and went out for paints before the shops closed but her mind pondered again.  Picking up a felt tip pen she started shading parts of his face and coloured in the eyes to make them darker, the nose narrower, and the eyebrows thicker.  Yes, he was somewhat similar but no matter how much ink she added to the portrait, it wasn’t as much of a likeness as she thought.  Declan, she hated him.  She drew two pointed triangles on his head and snorted, amusing herself then looking out the window again. 
    She speculated if he was the same as Declan or worse.  Must be for someone to pay a lot of money to make sure he didn’t make it home one day, after the poison worked on him.  Would that person be disappointed to see him the next day because the weather wasn’t cooperating or there was too much light or too many security cameras?  Sometimes it could take days or weeks for an opportunity to present itself. 
    She liked to think they were all like Declan; she liked to think that she was possibly impeding the abuse in the prey’s household.  If they had heart attacks and died did that mean someone else was saved, suffering and pain eliminated?  It only took one bastard to ruin how many lives?  Did he cheat on his wife, did he beat her or did he abuse his children?
    It really was none of her business and she never knew anyway.  Funny, she never allowed those kinds of thoughts before to penetrate her mind; the mortal and moral thoughts associated with what she did.  Not until she saw John Brinkman’s dead face, or the face of the saviour’s, his pale eyes and chiselled features, or the first time that she actually almost got caught.  It made her question her own mortality but she couldn’t be afraid of it in her line of work.
    Sophie shook her head, trying to clear it.  She couldn’t think any more about Declan, this bastard, or John, there’s no point.  All she knew was the package would show up and she had a job to do.  The only job she was any good at.  There had never been an incident before, so close to being found out.
    Hope you’re enjoying your holiday sir, snow gives you a reprieve.  She was hoping Declan choked on his Christmas pudding, and the man on the train, she wished ….  Why did she wish anything about him?  She had to admire the fact that he at least tried to save John on the train that night even though she knew it was hopeless.  Her own thoughts of him could not be kept at bay yet she hoped he forgot about her.
    Rolling the needle between her thumb and index finger, she slid the sheath off and quickly and swiftly punctured the orange causing it to roll, caught it and tried again, over and over.  It wasn’t working for her.  Restlessness prevented the concentration it took to use the correct force and pressure to quickly and cleanly get the needle in and out without it moving. 
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