Identity Crisis

"...The only thing saving your life
Is that I don't look good in orange
And I hate stripes..."

With an annoyed sigh, I pluck the earphones out of my ears and run a hand through my freshly dyed black hair. My eye slightly itches, but I resist the urge to rub it; scared of shifting the contact lens.

I should have thought of Brandy Clark's lyrics before pulling the trigger. Not now, walking through the airport with a false ID and passport.

"Jane, please..."

Brock was on his knees, pleading.

Half naked, but pleading. At that moment, my conscience was long gone. I couldn't will myself to think straight or form any coherent sentences.

I just raised my arm and pulled the trigger.

The red-head screamed. She had to go too.

Two bullets.

Two shots.

Two bodies.

Thinking back, it was a very stupid, very impulsive thing to do. Way too spontaneous for someone who has to-do lists and reminders set for every little mediocre daily task.

"Working late. Call you later.
Xx"

That's the text I got from Brock just a few hours before I ceased his existence.

I knew he was lying.

I didn't plan on knowing about his lie. I happened to drive past his office parking lot after coming from across town on my way home. I was gonna pop in and ask him something, but it left my mind the moment I saw his car leaving the lot a half an hour before he was supposed to leave. I thought that it was strange, but instead of trying to get his attention and notify him of my presence, I followed at a safe distance as he drove off in the opposite direction from where our home was. I knew it was wrong, but something was gnawing at the back of my mind and a little voice urged me to keep following him.

I had been following him for about 40 minutes when he turned into a quiet little street on the other side of town. He parked his car in front of a timid and cozy looking house. It was then that his text came through and the gnawing feeling intesified. I watched him get out of his car and enter the house without knocking or ringing a doorbell. I stayed in my car a few houses down the road and waited.

Ten minutes passed.

Then 20 minutes.

A half hour soon came and shortly after I'd already been sat there for an hour and it had gotten dark out.

It was about three hours after he'd set foot in the unfamiliar house that I'd decided to exit my car and walk up to the house, but not before retrieving the pistol that I keep hidden in the glove compartment and tucking it into the waistband of my jeans. That same voice from earlier convinced me that it might come in handy, and I didn't dare argue.

Cautiously, I made my way towards the quaint brickhouse. The neighbourhood had become quiet. The kids that had been playing outside just a few hours earlier had all retreated to their respective homes. They would either have been sitting down with their families for a late dinner or getting some last minute homework done before bed.

No cars were on the road, not a dog barked, no voices drifted through the air from neighbouring houses - nothing.

Nothing but absolute deafening silence.