CallMeNever
“Please,” said the man shakily. Beads of sweat dripped down the sides of his face. His eyes were wide in fear, trained at the handgun I held pointed at him. I flicked the safety, causing the man to tremble visibly.
“You can’t do this!” he cried, his voice thick and hoarse. I narrowed my eyes.
“Oh yeah?” I said, raising an eyebrow.
I lined up the barrel of the gun with the man’s forehead and pulled the trigger, putting a bullet cleanly through his skull. Lowering the gun, I stepped over the growing puddle of blood to where the man lay and leaned down to check his pulse. Dead. “Well I just did.” And with that, I strode out of the room, eyes hard, heart cold. That was how it should be.
Because murder is a dish best served cold.