Formidable Occupation

Chapter Three

4

A part of me, in a situation like this always screams about how cruel I can be, telling me to stop, quit my job, escape to some exotic beach and wear flip flops for eternity. But the sensible part of me snaps me back into the real world, shattering my impulses.

Mitch is doing what the hell it is he is doing on the other side of the earpiece, telling me I should really kill this girl. As I walk through the rows of lackly maintained house, I realize something, the people here can’t afford mortality insurances, they don’t know when they are going to die, but she does, and I feel sorry for her. These people are more fortunate, not knowing when their life is going to be taken. There’s something sort of strangely beautiful about the unpredictables.

My feet feel heavier each step, as if the thought of killing someone who had it coming slowly adds the weight to my bones. In like a sudden jolt, my feet resist to step any closer when the girl runs into an alley that is definitely a dead end. Her black hair swaying to left and right, as she desperately trying to runaway from the probability of her imminent death.

When I walk into the alley, she cowers to the corner to the wall, hugging her knees and holding back her tears. Now I can really see her. Her wide eyes are shut tight, trying to block out the reality of her future end. Her hands clutching her jeans covered knees, so hard that her nails dig into the fabric. Something hollow grows in my gut, I ache for her.

“Wait! Read the-” Mitch yells before the line got cut off. This happens from time to time, it can be used as an excuse to miss a target sometimes. Don’t get me wrong, liquidators have compassion sometimes, that’s why my chest feels hollow, my mind wander to some place in the past to escape the horrid present, and my feet feels heavy as fuck. My eyes can’t bear to look into her desperate eyes, just look at my shoes as I walk towards her.

The situation reminds me of my worst situation. A man held a gun on my face, telling me to get off his house or he will shoot me in my face. I had to beg for my life like a coward when my brother kicked me out of the house, holding a fucking blunderbust to my face, telling me to fuck off his property. His breath smelled like bourbon distelary, and his face was showing nothing familiar to me back then, verocity. How horrible can humans get, we have never known the boundaries.

Again, I begin to question my morals, even if I only have just a very small fraction of morals. I know this job is horrible. She’s just a job, she is just a job, she is just a job. I keep telling mysellf that while I walk towards her slowly. I imagine things from her prespective, and I see myself as her cruel end, dreaded and hated.

“I’m sorry” I reach for my gun in my satchel. Her face scrunches up in anticipation. I can only hear her sobs and the clatters of my stuff in the satchel. But I can’t seem to find my gun.

“Do it quick” the girl nods.

The series of events that happened today still shocks me. But the absent of my weapon of choice had never happened to anyone with my occupation before. Sometimes I don’t realize how I can be such a screw up.

I realize my face expression exudes panic. And she starts to stare at me again with her creepy wide eyes. Her frown suggests that she’s trying to read something unreadable from me. Once we both knows what’s going on, she springs up to a standing position and goes for it. But her run only lasts a few steps before she runs into me. This girl’s not too careful about which way she is running. Her instinctual groan adds up to the struggle as I wrap my arms around her to stop her flailing. I can feel her fists on my nose, slamming the blood out of it. I can’t help but groan out of the pain her relatively small fist delivered to my nose. But my arms remain still around her, preventing her from running away.

“Eli, let… Coming… Behind…” The communication between me and Mitch has disrupted signal at the moment, I can only make out three words out of it. And I don’t even know what to react from those.

“No!” The girl screams before I hear a gunshot and I feel an extreme heat going through my back. The heat turns into cold as thick red liquid drips from the girl’s back.

Her body goes stiff against me, and my arms can’t seem to find the strength to hold her. She backs up a step away from me and her eyes tearing up as she looks down to her grewsome newly formed bullet wound. Just below the position of her kidney is an open wound, dripping out blood and the life out of her. She presses her wound with a hand, but she can’t press hard enough to stop it. My gut drops at the sight of the last seconds of the girl’s life is spent by looking at me, her eyes goes wide and her lips parted trying to say something she can’t. Maybe she wants her last word for me to be ‘fuck you’ or something like that.

But I realize it’s not. I look down and I see my own bullet wound, dripping out even more blood from my body. The bullet had gone through me, then through her. The size of the bullet is the kinds if bullet in a liquidator’s gun. Large in diametre, and sharp as the tip of a spear.

Before I can’t think of anything causing this to happen, the last thing I can see before my vision blurs is her. Her body goes weak and limp, she drops backward to the concrete. Then everything I see turns red, blue, yellow, before everything turns black.