One. Last. Time. - A Short Story

One. Last. Time.

She strapped her belt around her waist, pulled her hood down to cover her face, and gently grasped the doorknob. With one last longing glance around the small, but comfortable, room, she tugged the door open and made her way down the moonlit street.

Her footsteps echoed off the brick buildings, her trained eye-catching even the slightest movement. She had one task in mind, and all other thoughts were put aside. She let only one voice bounce around in her head, and its instructions were clear: Edward Henderson, Baker's St., house number 1453, get in, get out, not a sound, and no one can know.

Baker's St. She took to two lefts and a right, the seconds growing longer and longer.

Fifth house down. The silence was screaming louder and louder.

She made quick work of it, breaking in through a window, silently and effortlessly. She snuck through the house, checking each room as she went.

The study, of course. Edward Henderson, greying hair, and wrinkled forehead. His reading glasses slid down his nose as he snored, leaning farther and farther back in his old armchair. She inched her way forward, drawing her small dagger from her weighed down belt, and placing its cold blade on the man's neck. He woke with a start.

She placed her finger to her lips, warning him, as she let an evil glint spread through her eyes. "Henderson."

His eyes narrowed. "I've heard of you."

She glared at him, willing him to stop before he went too far.

Henderson's eyes grew soft, and... sad. "You work for Ryker, doing his dirty work for him."

She tightened her grip on her knife, letting a snarl curl on her lips.

He gave a pitying smile and continued. "It's sad you know. There are other ways to earn money." He shrugged. "You could get a job... I don't understand how you can be so cruel."

Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "You don't know the half of it." She whispered, choking on the words.

Henderson shook his head and frowned. "I pray you never take a breath without remembering the breaths you've taken away."

Her hand trembled, but she tugged on her knife, ending it. She took a deep breath, letting Ryker's voice take over once again. For her mother, for her sister, for her little brother who had yet to learn of the world's cruelty. She couldn't lose them, so she was losing herself.

The next name rang through her head, as she added Henderson to the growing list of dead bodies.

Jaclyn Tate, Sheffield St., house number 1450.

Picking her way through the streets, her lungs fought her with every breathe.

She climbed through an open window and began her search. Her hands were shaking, and her head ached. She stopped in the bathroom, willing her body to relax.

She gripped the rim of the porcelain sink and tried to steady her hands.

"One last time," she whispered to herself.

One. Last. Time.