Mine (Jenlisa)

two.

Lisa's POV~

I reached the fourth floor and passed by the man I was going to kill later. His cologne was horribly overpowering. I could smell it as I crossed behind him, one aisle of books away. The shadow came with me, urging me on. I pushed it back. Patience. Yes. We would have to be patient. But as I down the aisle, I thought maybe I could kill a week early. He was going though exactly the same motions as he had the week before, and the week before that. Maybe an early kill. If the parking lot was clear. If I had thought to bring the syringe with me. I tried to make every tracking as much like the real thing as possible. Preparations. Yes. That is what separated that good killer from the great.

I picked out a book at random and opened it up, holding it in front of me without seeing the words. The man shuffled his feet and stood, indecisive, in front of the shelves.

Pick one, I thought. You won't get to read it anyway.

The smell of the books in my hands was an old smell, the smell of paper rotting into dust. Libraries were resting homes for all dying books. Dead books, dead authors. Incredible, that characters could live so much longer than the people who wrote them. A character in a book might live forever, as long as there was someone there to read him to remember him.

We though, are mortal, and I do not expect anyone to remember me.

And certainly, nobody will remember him.

The man took a book from the shelf and I followed carefully, taking the stairs on the opposite side. I did not want to see the girl again, for she might remember me. The girl who kissed me.

I remembered only her eyes. They were brown and sad. I cannot tell you anything else about her, though. She came and went like any other women in my life, in and out before I could care enough to remember. My thoughts were only on the syringe in my pocket and the man whose life I would steal away before he harmed the world anymore than he already has.

Maybe his wife will remember him,I thought. I smiled. I thought of myself as a kind of assassin, one who worked for free. A pro bono hit man. Charity work, not murder.

We were down the stairs, I followed him to the counter and out to the door. He had the book in his hands.He would never get the chance to read it. Poor characters in the book. They would die too, being left unread. (A/N: Me on Snapchat. Being left seen. Sad life)

He crossed the parking lot and I followed him, checking around the library. Nobody was there. I could do it tonight, yes. The preparations were nearly done. Why not? I deserved a bit of respite from the shadow.

Sometimes the world make itself just right. The wind blows a certain way. People walk with puppet strings attached to their limbs, and I feel like the puppet master. That was how he walked, across the parking lot toward the place where I would take him.

I had made up my mind. I would do it tonight, a week early. It was the perfect opportunity, and I would not pass it up.

He was at his car and I was there at my car next to him where I had left it, trunk unlocked. Before he could open the door, I spoke out loud; angrily.

The man raised his eyebrows and came around to my side of the car. He was curious. Perfect.

We are all excited to see destruction, of course. We all want to stare at the damage someone else has caused. I am just more honest then everyone else. I don't wait for the damage to come to me. I got out and find it.

Oh, the man. Yes. Him. One plunge of the syringe was all it took, and he was already unconscious. It only took a second more to toss him into the trunk. The book went on top of his limb body.