Ubiquitous

Hammer, Trigger and Barrel.

This follows an encounter between a female hitman and a cute guy in a coffee shop. Would she take the kill?

xxxxx

A famous hitman once said; when you kill someone, a part of yourself dies with the victim.

Okay so he isn't famous, nor can I prove the authenticity of this quote. But I can tell you that nothing has ever felt so relative to me than this quote.

I am a hitman, myself. Unless you consider a female hitman as a hitwoman, then yes, I am a hitwoman. I think I like hitman better. Yes, let's stick with hitman.

Research says that female assassins are very, very rare. We are like unicorns, except unicorns probably don't even exist. We are like the great blue whale, or narwhals. Wait, do narwhals exist? Oh yes, they do. See, this is the problem. Not many are convinced with the existence of female assassins.

I mean sure, there are loads of movies where there is a sexy female figure wandering around with a gun underneath her side-slit skirt on her thighs and go around shooting men coquettishly.

We don't.

These darn movies, raising people's expectations on female assassins since forever. As far as I am aware of...I'm not aware of any other female assassins than myself. There is no society or organisations whatsoever.

Or if there is, no one gave me a memo.

No one knows what I work as, or how I could afford those videogame consoles in my living room. I go out at odd hours and would sometimes be gone for a few days.

And the plot twist is...I have no one.

No one is around to boss me or care about my whereabouts. No one to be curious about my career. It's bliss, really. It's not that I chase everyone in my life away, but there really is no one in my life since the start. By start, I mean after I got out of juvie. No one wanted me, so I resoluted to living alone with the money I make illegally. By illegally, I mean selling drugs to kids younger than me and delivering things. I still don't know what those things are, though.

I learnt how to shoot when I was 13, by this guy called Roller. It was because of him that I got thrown into juvie. I don't want to talk about it, it brings back bad memories. Ha! Who am I kidding? My whole life is a bad nightmare itself. Sometimes I would wake up from sleep and wish it's all a dream and that I'm actually an average 20-year old New Yorker working in an office or something.

But that never happened.

I look into the mirror and stare at my own eyes. I wish I could find the words to describe my eyes, but my pupils are just plain black and they don't even stand out. Maybe I could say they're two black holes, a couple of endless pits. Once you fall in them, you won't get out.

My hair is pixie short with a single strand of braid sticking out under my ear. How I got the idea to have this hairstyle is funny, really. I saw a picture of Agyness Deyn on a magazine and I was amazed by how nice her hair looks. But beside that magazine is my copy of Star Wars II: Attack of the Clones.

Do you see the combination there? No? Oh, I just happened to be fond of Anakin Skywalker's weird single braid and Agyness Deyn's short hair in the same time. And there you have, my awkward hairstyle.

I put on a fresh pair of jeans, the skin tight ones. The Van Halen shirt I'm wearing feels more comfortable than the last time I wore it. I grab my moto jacket, the one with leather sleeves, and put them on. I don't have a job today, so I thought I'd wear something that doesn't necessarily blend me in the crowd.

The day seems to be slightly brighter today, compared to the other days. Something about it makes everything shine. Everything but me, of course. I have no reason to shine, I don't deserve to. Everyday, I live knowing that I have killed. Not once.