Starry Nighy By Edgar Allen Poe (Frerard)

Prologue

It was 4:20 a.m. on May 11th, 1997 when I was conducting my usual routine. Focus. Aim. Shoot. Scrub. Repeat. This is my life; this is my job and I love it. I can get the same satisfaction I would without actually committing the crime. Manslaughter. I only clean the bodies and make sure police cannot get any evidence if I do happen to miss a spot. I've been doing this job since I was fifteen, following in my father's footsteps –I am now thirty-five. Like my mother, my own wife doesn't know of this. At first, this job was thrust upon me, only securing me in the same fate as the men in my family before me, and I had taken no pleasure in doing it. Until twelve years ago.

They call him La artista, because of the pictures he paints with his kills. Since the first time I was called by him, I'd gotten a thorough feeling of pleasure across my body at the sight of his work. He would position the bodies in a way that would tell a story; he'd run his hand through their blood and create swirls as if he were trying to show anyone who saw those bodies the world he entered when he killed his victims. Although I've never seen him, his voice weighs heavy on my mind. I want to meet this man, which is something I've never wanted to do before, and shake his hand and possibly thank him for giving me pleasure in doing an old family job.

By the time I arrive home, it is almost six in the morning. I silently slip into the empty space next to my wife, and turn my back toward her. I never liked to look at her after doing a job; it makes me feel dirty. It leads me to believe I've tainted her just by looking at her with my eyes which have seen gruesome and mutilated bodies of people I've never known. Thinking about the bodies again, I close my eyes and sleep. I am barely drifting off into sleep when the alarm on my wife's side of the room goes off. She normally likes to let it ring until she can't possibly sleep any longer-even after turning it off. Finally, she turns it off and sits up in bed. I keep my eyes closed, knowing she's turned to look at me already. I know her morning habits well enough after being married for thirteen years. She'll sit up, rub her eyes, look over at me, get up, stretch, and then walk into the restroom to begin her day at work. I smile, thinking about how well I know her, and let myself drift off to sleep again.

"I need your help once more. 22 Brooklyn Drive. Tavern Apartments. Apartment number 25. Three men. Your pay will be under a leg of the coffee table. I am trusting you as always. Thank you." Then he hung up. There are many other cleaners to choose from, but I am honored he has chosen me, and has continued to do so. As a cleaner, if you don't do your job well enough, not only will people not call you, but if you leave any trace of evidence, you will be cut off. Meaning, you were killed or taken away from whatever other life you led. It was a risky business, but, thanks to the men in my family before me, my reputation was well. I was very well respected, I was almost thrown off. I've met every other hitman, and they welcomed me to their homes and lives with no hesitation. We were our own community; we all knew each other and no one was hidden. We always knew the going-ons of our city. Then he came into it. No one knows his face or real name (which was oddly abnormal), and my employer and I are the only ones who've heard his voice. Bob, our manager, I think has only seen his body. He told me, in secret, that he wore a mask to his "interview," and that's when he knew, right away, that he needed to have him on board.

Bob is a great person, really. He isn't a jackass, until you show him disrespect. In a way, we were all like the Corleone family, just subtract the betrayal within the family. That was us. Bob, of course, was pushed into the throne of "greatness" by his father, same as me. The others in our little family chose to lead this life. That was fine. But Bob and I hold a kind of bond over the fact that we just wanted to lead simple lives. He never wanted to hire people for killing or cleaning, or hand out names to kill and clean, just like I never wanted to meet the hitter or clean for them. Don't get me wrong, I love everyone, but I'm sure I would love them more if I didn't know what they did for fun.