Short Story Collection

The Godmother

Shimmering lights, velvet curtains, jewels dripping off wrists and hands and chests.

My eyes flicked around the room, settling on every person in the theatre; cheater, thief, criminal... All of them sitting all prim and proper for the opera.

My sights were trained on the man sitting in the balcony, his arm draped around a woman who most certainly was not his wife. Someone younger, someone prettier, someone who could hide a black eye with sunglasses and a smile. She traced her finger along the facets of the flawlessly cut diamond around her throat. A gift from a man who had only started to show his true colours

My opportunity was coming soon, and she was in the way. I was only here for one person, and she wasn't him. I was not going to hurt her, just so I could get to him... Besides, she didn't know he had a wife.

"Come on..." I murmured, muscles going taut. "Move!"

The song had begun to crescendo, the soprano centre stage wailing along with the orchestra.

One...

The woman shifted.

Two...

I took in a deep breath.

Three...

I fired.

The shot was barely audible as the song reached its peak...

The man slumped over in his seat, the woman screamed.

I was long gone by the time the theatre dissolved into pure and utter chaos.

They call me the Godmother, and I have a very special kind of magic; I can make the bad people disappear.

My car rumbled down the highway, country music fading in and out of the radio. The day was fading to dusk, casting a soft glow on the red and gold trees. The wind whistled outside my window, I let out a deep sigh and tried to focus my attention back on the road.

I ignored the rifle in the back seat, and the bloody clothes tied in the grocery bag on the floor. I kept my eyes averted from the bloody knives tucked into their sheaths, to be thoroughly cleaned when I was back in the city.

Just another day, another job...

I guess everyone has their own calling, right? Singers, dancers, actors. Mine just so happens to be on the right side of a gun.

Today's client was the wife of a politician who'd been violent with her for years. She spoke to me about beatings the same way you'd talk about burnt cookies or missing your bus.

She wanted an out, I gave her an out. Simple as that.

Maybe there's some sort of sick joy in it, I don't know... but I have to admit; I enjoyed letting the son of a bitch suffer.

The road had started to curve around a hill, I could see the glittering cityscape against the horizon. It wasn't home... nothing was, not anymore, but it was about as close as I could get.

A few minutes passed, the radio keeping steady for once. I took it as a good omen and continued to drive into the city.

The radio crackled out again once I was within city limits, I was too far away from wherever the station was. Soon the interior of the car faded into silence, only the roar of the engine to be heard. The cityscape passed in a blur of skyscrapers and traffic lights.

My apartment was on the east side. Lots of people, lots of apartments, better to get lost in the crowd than to walk alone and get caught. The sketchiest area in town, plenty of things to catch the police's attention, they don't need to pay any mind to the young woman with the gun in her bag, right? She's just protecting herself, right? She couldn't hurt a fly, right?