6

I was at one point, a law abiding citizen, a less dirty thing than I am now. But I learned a valuable lesson in the blood and entrails. They spelled out a truth: those with knowledge will always be surrounded by enemies.

My hands are dirty again. But not from the blood. Never from the blood. It's why I don't like to draw it.

I was rash and angry when I was young. Lashing out on anything and everything in sight. Like a mindless dog, I bit anything my masters pointed to.

I was a fool.

My hands are forever soaked in blood now, unwashable, unrinsable. Too late to have morals or values.

It's why I use poison now. Easier, simple.

And no blood.

I don't like to look at it. Not because it makes me sick, or because it makes ashamed—if that were it, I'd be proud.

It makes me thirsty. There's never enough, once I see it, spattered on the ground, the wall, on my knuckles, my face.

I was young, and dumb, and so easily trained. I've been many things over the years. Satisfied, isn't one them.

The moon is high and bright—a full moon. It's sad the stars are dimmed by the lights of man, but apt. Just another thing we've killed.

I glance away from it. My pen swirls between my fingers. It's been a while since I've killed someone. Blood or no, it's an intoxicating feeling. Someone's life in your hands, pulse thumping under your thumb, as it fades to silence.

I purse my lips, and spin my pen harder.

There's something I want. So desperately, and I know...I know I'll get it. I'll get it when I least expect it, when I don't want anymore.

It feels like...it's breathing down my neck. I feel it, hot, and hungry.

I stand, and draw the curtains, throwing myself into the pitch blackness, running my fingers through my hair with a heavy breath. It's getting longer. It reaches my shoulders now.

I fiddle with the ends and try to think. Try to think of a plan, next steps, a strategy. I should know what to do. He would know what to do.

I clench my jaw at the thought, my pen leaving my hand before I realize, penetrating the wall.

Fuck.

The cheap drywall cracks at the force. Fuck. Is there anything I don't destroy? I put my hands on my knees, stand up and pull my pen out the wall.

The hole it leaves behind is startling larger than the pen. That's the way, though isn't it? It's never the initial wound. It's always the aftermath that gets you.

I flop down on the couch, lean back, resting my arm against the back of the couch, my other spinning my pen.

What has Dawson in such a tizzy, you might ask. What else but a job?

I purse my lips, feeling my scar twitch. I'm troubled. Unbelievably troubled. I lick my lips, my tongue falling into the crack in my lip.

"I need something." I grumble, standing stumbling to my still empty fridge. I slip my hand into the cold fridge, past the beers, my fingers finding the neck of a bottle.

I take it, shut the door, bathed in darkness once more. It's okay. I know the layout by heart. I shuffle past the coffee table, over the mess of clothes, over the junk I never bothered to throw away.

I take my place on the old couch, and open my bottle.

My phone rings. But of course. I lift the receiver taking a swig of my brandy.

"What?"

There's silence on the line. It's not Noble.

"You didn't call in to report your success. I gave you the order at 6am. It's 6:38pm."

I smirk. "Oh? Is that the time?"

He's silent again. I count the seconds.

"You're getting rusty, aren't you?"

I bite lip, until the taste of iron fills my mouth. Sweet blood. Mine.

"Do you want to die?"

It's a good question. "It's been 12 hours. The dossier says I have 5 days—"

"You don't need 5 days. So why are you hesitating? The girl?"

I smile. Of course he's watching. I used to think his attention was love. That I was being spoiled. In a way, I was.

"Girl? I think you forget I'm 31 now. I would never touch a girl."

"Woman, then."

I take another swig. It burns the inside of lip, torn by teeth.

"When am I ever distracted by women?" I scoff. "You worry too much old man."

"I worry just enough. I'm your manager."

I nod. "That you are. So you'll manage to wait 6 days, won't you?"

"..."

The line clicks. That means yes. Or maybe it means he sends someone after me, to take me out. I don't think I care either way.

I know he doesn't. His disinterest gives me more wiggle room.

My next target isn't a rival spy. Not a diplomat, not a politician. She's just caught up in a storm. She's just a tool. Like me.

I look back at the hologram. It flickers to life. The picture of my target greets me. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Procrastinating won't fix this, will it? Putting it off...it'll only build the anticipation of suffering. So I put on the disguise given me, a uniform. It fits perfectly. It makes my skin itch.

I clench my fists, and pull out my gun. It's clean. Pristine. No serial number, not a scratch. No one's ever got that close.

I swallow and tuck it into my belt. He's right about one thing: I didn't need the 6 days.

I drive to the preset coordination —like marching toward destiny. There's a sickening feeling. It won't be there for long.

The taste of brandy is still on my lips, mingled with blood. I park the car in a closed store, and continue my journey on foot.

The thing about countries is that they're actually quite fragile things. Everything has to be in order—or at least look like it is.

One small puzzle piece out of place and suddenly an empire's crumbling. The house is large, and spacious. The bustle of cooks, maids—servants. With the uniform I'm just one of them. No one looks at the help twice.

I sneak upstairs. I have a layout, memorized. Some maids pass me with laundry. I nod at them and shuffle past.

When I get to the door, I know it's it. Don't even need the layout. I push it open. It creaks.

It's 8pm now. My target sits on the floor. She plays with a pink bunny, as big as she is. I shut the door behind me.

"Hey there," I smile. "That's a cute bunny."

"He's a rabbit. Rabbits are bigger than bunnies," she informs me.

I chuckle and nod. "You're a pretty smart kid, aren't you?"

"Of course."

I sit down next to her, fold my legs, and grab one of dolls.

"What's her name?"

Her eyes shudder. "She doesn't have one."

I look down at the well worn doll. A favorite it seems.

"What do you call her?"

She looks away. "She's the mom."

I nod softly and force a smile. "She looks like a lovely mother. But it's late. Why don't you get ready for bed? Your dad says it's time."

She yawns, right on cue. "You're not the usual nanny. And your outfit is funny."

I look down at it and pull it. "You're right. I'm here tonight for a special reason."

Her eyes begin to close.

"Really? What's the special reason?"

"I have a present for you."

Her eyes fly open. "A present?!"

I chuckle. "Yes, but I can't give it to you now. Go to sleep. When you open your eyes next, you'll have your present. Nanny's promise," I offer my pinkie.

She takes it, and shaking it with her own. I look down it. Small. So small.

I put it down.

"Will you sing? My nanny usually sings."

"Oh...I'm not a good singer—"

"You have to,"

I sit down. "Hey, you know that place your dad used to take you? The scary one?"

Her eyes open. "...Why?"

"You'll never have to go that place again. I promise you."

She grins. Her eyes, bright and green, shimmer.

"You're the best nanny ever!" She squeals, her toes wriggling under the cover in excitement.

"Yeah, yeah. Close your eyes."

I stay with her for a bit. Her breath evens out after about twenty minutes. I stay in the chair though, looking at the rug. It has a race track on it. She must like cars.

I pull out my gun and purse my lips.

My eyes narrow. I put the cool steel against her small forehead. There's nothing else in my mind now. I pull the trigger.

Her mouth opens, her final breath, soft.

That's what you get for trusting people I suppose. Even as a child. All you earn from trusting others is a bullet in your skull.

I open the window, suction my way under the balcony and wait for the parents to come running. I have to confirm they get the message after all.

The mother is first. Her scream is shrill and bone chilling. Every breath, every sob bathed in such unbearable sorrow.

I'd ask for forgiveness. But I know I'm unforgivable. So I slip into the night, and crawl back to my hole.

She'll never open her eyes again.