Flashbacks raced through my mind. My pulse, as fast as the cheetah I saw just a few months ago with her. I felt my mind, so scarred. My heart, pounding against the ribs of my chest. The heart that used to love her; the heart that never would hurt a soul.
It was the rainy morning of a Sunday, and as I headed out for work, I kissed my mother's forehead, and slipped into my shoes.
"Greg, honey, please take out the trash, will you?" She said with her sweet, angelic voice. I nodded, and grabbed the trash bag, tossing the trash out as I went. As I stepped into my car, the last I saw of her was that she was in her rocking chair, knitting, and our cat, Jasper, jumping onto her lap. I drove off, straight to my company.
I never told my mother my work. I never told anyone, quite frankly. It wasn't something to be very proud of, but I do get paid quite handsomely for it. I never enjoyed the feeling of doing it, but I had to.
Parking my car in their driveway, I headed up the floors, up to the top floor. I pushed open the door, my heart pounding a little. It always happened when I enter. My line of work wasn't what you would call...ordinary. In fact, it involved quite a lot of strategy, strength, and of course, secrecy. I opened the door, and there was a group of men, all dressed in suits, sunglasses, and slicked back hair. They were all staring at me, as if waiting. I sat down at the only empty seat, and cleared my throat.
"Gentlemen, who is our next target, today?"
YOU ARE READING
Crimson Red
Mystery / ThrillerAnd as I stared at my now blood-stained hands, I finally realised. I realised how precious life could be, I realised how ignorant I was, I realised something; I could not control how others' lives work, and when was their time to go.
