The ring of the phone makes your heart flicker as it buzzes in your pocket. In paick you answer the call and listen to the deep gruff vice on the other side. As the instructions are laid down, you nervously think about the consequences of the crime you will soon commit. The phone calls ends as the sun is swallowed by the blanket of mist that lingers the city.  As if the mood of the day was a reflection of the crime. Viscous and cold blooded. The sound of the bullets sliding through the magazine makes you quiver, this is not you. But you’re trapped. Without the act of pulling the trigger your life will be shattered in front of your eyes by the man with the gruff voice. You’re stranded in a dark , frightening hole, away from the life of society and every time you make a mistake the hole gets deeper and the more dirt you have to fill it with.

Muscles are tightening in fear, face and hands dicrete what feels like the atlantic ocean in sweet and your mind somehow analyses every possible outcome in the space of a few minutes. It’s the approach. The bright illuminating fire exit sign marks your journey up the gungy stairs stained with graffiti and mold. Gravel and stones scrape your set beaded skin as you crawl to the cracked hole in the rooftops concrete balustrade. Beyond the swarm of civilians that roam the streets below you have to identify your target. The depth of the whole depends on the accuracy of your eye. The smallest muscle in the body holds your fate. You scan the streets like a hawk, looking for your victim. Your heart beat stops as what is your targets head fills the scope.

The crack of the bullet echoes through the narrow alleyway where the target now lies. A rapid diagnosis of havick injects into the swarm of oblivious civilians. Screams and cries chills your bones and eat away at your mind. You quickly disassemble your gun and scurry down those gungy stairs to the hibernation of your car. Blue and red flashing lights illuminate the crime scene with men in flash blue suites frantically trying to find answers.

Feet firmly grounded, salty tears dribbling down your cheek and arms tensely grasping to the side of the chair while the other loosely holds the neck of a bottle of whiskey. The burning taste of hard liquor trickle down your throat is meant to allow you to forget. To be able to forget the deadly sins you have committed. However the dry, burning taste doesn’t wash away the guilt, only to cement it into your memory.