Mikhail

8

I couldn't face her. Hell, I was scared of facing her. For some inexplicable reason, I felt so damn responsible for the state in which she was.

Transferring the shopping bag in my right hand to my left, I unlocked the door and stepped inside my flat tentatively. She was sitting in the living room in front of the TV, but from the look in her eyes, whatever was being shown was lost on her.

She jerked her head in my direction, seemingly hearing the click of the door as I closed it behind me. The fear in her eyes made me wince, until it gradually eased out when she saw that it was me.

I walked over to her, setting the shopping bag in front of her and the polythene with takeout from a restaurant on the glass centrepiece. She looked up at me enquiringly.

“I brought you some dresses and underwears from the boutique.” I explained.

“You bought me underwears?” Her eyes widened in disbelief. I nodded, and she turned away from me, cheeks turning pink, then muttered, “Pervert.”

“The shopkeeor selected everything, I swear. She had your figure.” I clarified.

She nodded, returning her gaze to the TV and instantly going quiet. Hating her silence, I asked, “Are you okay?”

She shifted her eyes to me, the brown depths filled with a sudden fear that squeezed hard at my heart.

“Do you mean to ask whether I'm still scared? Then yes, I am. Believe me, it's not an easy thing to find out that someone is suddenly after your neck.” She answered wryly.

That still unfamiliar, restless feeling enveloped me, and I couldn't shake it off. I took the takeout bag from the table and brought out the take out bowl. I opened the lid, and delicious aromas sizzled through the air. I set it on the centrepiece.

“I also got you some food.”

“Chicken burritos?” She looked at me in awe. “You remembered?”

For her sake, I managed a small smile even though I didn't feel the lightness of the spirit to do so and nodded. Back in high school when we'd been history partners, she'd once gone on and on about how chicken burritos was her favourite, why it was the best food in the world and what made it so delicious.

She'd asked me what my favourite food was, and of course I hadn't answered. I didn't have a favourite food anyway.

Just as quickly as it appeared, the enthusiasm disappeared from Montserrat's eyes. Picking up a piece of chicken, she bit into it and chewed it like it was rubber. I clenched my fist on my laps.

I couldn't believe that someone with so much optimism could put so down. She was so strong and yet so vulnerable, so innocent. To think I'd been on the verge of killing her.

What if she hadn't sang that song which my mother used to sing to me when I was a child which had made me stall on pulling the trigger? I would've killed her for sure.

For the first time ever since I'd become an assassin, my gut twisted with guilt. I felt sick to the stomach. How many innocent lives had I taken?

“You know I was. . . thinking about the movie we saw at the cinema today.” She paused, as if contemplating whether to continue. “I know a lot of people will disagree with me, but... Sure, those six men did rape and kill his wife, but I don't think it was up to him to exact justice, kill them the way he did. For me, it stooped him down to their level. It made him as bad as the people he was taking revenge on.”

Her words hit me like bricks because she'd hit so close to home without even knowing it. I'd become an assassin because I wanted to get rid of every cold-hearted murderer I came across. I'd killed the three people who'd personally killed my parents as revenge and due to hate, but they'd been bad people.