The Lament of the Mediocre Hitman

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Every evening as the food heats up, I turn the stove to low. I drink my coffee and listen to the ocean by the window. And I wonder—and I wonder, if tonight will be my last supper.

Every night, I roll out of bed at this unholy hour, a quarter to three in the morning, and I wonder how close I am to dying. I wonder if the tiniest crack of a twig is the click of a gun, and if that window with the sea will be the last thing I see. I know why.

It’s been twenty nights since I let my humanity go. I tally them as I go rather than glance at the calendar.

I wouldn’t say its guilt. It’s not guilt that I feel. It’s direction. It’s a lack of direction, because my time and my road are already up. The showreel stopped running and I’m still sitting in the audience.

At the bottom of it, I guess it could be the fear my own cause of mortality. I say I accept the consequences; that I knew my end would come through death.

I wonder when the day will come.

I keep no trace of me. I get no mail. I’m far away from the road that the house looks abandoned and resided in all at once, and I lack a car for I go nowhere now.

I did not hide away for my peace of mind. I don't deserve it.

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Kid still isn’t here.

I wonder where the kid is.

I owe that much to the kid—a final shot to make things balanced. An apology, in the form of me dying at the kid’s hands. I let the father bleed out. I let my tiny sliver of urgency to help turn to numbness. That’s one thing they don’t tell you when you kill for money; you will still have the tiny human urge to help your target live.  

A life for the life.

I still can’t sleep, and maybe even then, that’s deserved. If you can't die, then feel dead.

For me to be imprisoned—to be in the stone barriers of a state, I couldn’t do that. It would mean I would live the rest of my life with the child knowing I was considered a human being still. And I am no human, not anymore. Not when I took their father from this Earth.

I stole their peace of mind twenty-three nights ago. Yet I know if I disappear, I know I will make it worse by not giving him a confirmation of a disappearance.

I say, and I claim, that I knew the sin I committed when I pulled the trigger.

I killed. I’m a killer. I took contracts and worked under orders. It wasn’t an ideal life; no happy person becomes a killer. But I never took contracts of parents. I never took contracts that involved women or children. It’s no code and no honor, certainly. There is no honor when it comes to murder. It was just my rule. My exceptions to the rest of the bloodshed.

And even then, I couldn't keep it.

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I can’t write like this. I can’t write like this is in this journal. I keep no calendar, but I do keep track of time. Three hours since my last entry and I’ve not slept. I never sleep. I don’t deserve the luxury of sleep. My. Me. I.

This isn’t about me. None of this is about me. This isn’t a collection of thoughts to grant myself peace of mind; I do not deserve that.

It is arrogant and blasphemous of me to let see a sign of humanity in me. To be indifferent of my own sin and the consequences it will bring is disrespectful. I can’t write to myself.

Child.

I write to you, child.

To the child of the father I killed.

I can’t call you kid; kid is too familiar. Even if I knew your name, I will still call you Child. You can live your life knowing I never knew your name, that part of your humanity.

I know you don’t care for my reasons or my remorse. I lost any form of privilege for you to hear it.

Truth is I didn’t know your father was a father when I took his life; I noticed your tennis shoes on the floor next to the welcome mat when I escaped. I noticed the dirty shoelaces and designs you inked on the white soles with pens. I noticed the backpack with buttons and doodles, with the blank side of a school badge facing me.

I shot your father the moment the bullet left the barrel, I killed the moment I stepped back and watched him die, and I sinned the moment I realized he had you.

To steal a parent from their child or a child from their parent is the most ultimate sin. And I sinned. I’m worse than the serpent from the first week of humanity’s existence. I sinned, and I deserve to burn in hell.

There is no excuse for me. Maybe it was your father’s weekend with you. Maybe he just kept you very well hidden from the other bad men that gave me the slip to do the job.

I didn’t know that type of man your father was. I didn’t know if he had a career. I didn’t know he had a family. All I was given of him was a name, an age and an address.

Unless you ask for my name when you come to kill me, I won’t tell you it. I will die in designated anonymity. I die a designated demon. I know others take pleasure in dying with no name, in the satisfaction that their actions go forever remembered with no name to be recognized.

Know that this is not the case. I won’t tell you my name, because I deserve to be forgotten. I deserve to be unmarked. Burn down this house if you want to; there’s matches by the stove and lighter fluid in the bottom cabinet.

Child, there won’t be freedom for me in death. Know that so. I won’t claim that my death will give you peace. I won’t claim anything for you.

But I’ll still give you the opportunity. It’s the least I can do.

I’ll wait.

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Child,

When you kill me, I know you will feel something. You might feel the adrenaline at first, surely buzzing through and the weapon feeling lighter and heavier than anything at once.

Then you’ll feel it—the recoil. The gradient of light and dark inverting into one. It will be your conscience in conflict. You’ll feel a lot in the first few minutes.

But the feeling is not going be satisfaction, no matter how much you try to call it.

I’m sorry.

If it’s any reassurance, you did the right thing. The world isn’t black and white, and you know this. You’ve grown up with the question on where you lie in the gradient of morality. Where you stand is up to you; I can’t decide that. But know I’m completely in the dark.

I am a demon, there is no doubt about it.

I am a killer, your father six feet under the ground is proof of that.

I’ll keep waiting.

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Child,

Don’t feel the guilt of taking my life—I am no human. Not anymore. I am a demon with warm blood. I lost the right to be called human the moment I pulled the trigger on your father.

You don’t need to know about the life I use to have. You don’t have to keep that weighing over your conscience; I had no life. I have no next of kin. I am an empty person and a mediocre hitman who couldn’t keep a simple code.

I won’t write about myself and tell you about my life—this isn’t a memoir. You don’t need that.

I used to be nobody. I still am nobody. And I won’t be anybody now.

I am up at the demon hour to talk to you. It’s the closest time at night I get to feel closer to my place. My world.

Let my death be your reassurance. You did the right thing in killing me.

I am truly nobody. I’m no one.

I’ll wait for you, child.

I’ll wait.

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Child,

Child, I stole him from you. I stole him from you in the worst way. I took him from you and I live with the regret. My regret means nothing to the burden I shoved on you; you live with his absence for the rest of your life.

I am so sorry.

I know these entries won’t give you resolution.

I know nothing in this life will.

But know I’m still waiting.

I’ll wait as long as it takes.