My storybook of

Discovery

He walks through empty halls; utterly isolated from the rest of society. His head is buzzing with ideas about what his life will be like now. He stops at a large oaken door. Silently, he listens.

Laughter, and music; the likes of which he has never heard before, not since he was a small child, with his family surrounding him.

"No". He breathes out the word softly. He knows there is no point dwelling on the past, and so he must look ahead towards the future. His hands are trembling, and his breath is shaky. This has never happened before. All his life had been leading up to this moment, and not once has he felt so much as a shudder. But, this time was special. It was important.

The door opens, and it is as if he is merely a spectator, not a key player. He blinks a few times for his opaque eyes to readjust. What he sees takes his breath away, and almost makes him forget his purpose.

Dancing. Beautiful and slow, with partners moving their angled limbs gracefully and rhythmically in time to what the band is playing. It is a sweet melody, unlike any he has heard before. The women are dressed in pastel shades of blues, pinks and yellows. The men are draped in silk, and each player has a smile on their face. One such man is wearing royal blue, and his partner adorns red. Bold colours when everyone else is so pale makes them stand out, which is what he is relying on.

He makes his way across the ballroom, fingering the object in his hand. The man has his eyes closed, and he and his partner are swaying to the beat. He weaves his way across the polished floors, making his way over to the bold couple.

His targets eyes are still firmly, tenderly, shut; bliss spread across his face. "How could he endure his guilt, knowing what he knew?" he thinks, fingers in position, ready to strike.

The man's eyes open; his smile slowly fades.

And the shot rings out.

Chaos. Everyone is screaming, running towards the exit. But they have no need. He will not hurt them. He has done what was required. As he looks upon the target's face, his eyes linger at the bullet hole, and the crimson stain slowly pooling out around the man's head, like a halo. The droplets find a pair, and slowly move together; a deadly tango ending only in silence.

The assassin smiles, his job complete. He has no sympathy for mortals. After all, he has discovered what it feels like to hold this newfound power in his hand, to have this... responsibility.

To be a God