The Assassin

He sat there, tapping his dark, brown hands on the engraved, rugged table. He really did wonder the stress of years on these digits of deeds. The candle light flickered onto the hands and seemed to flow like a river of flames wrapping up each other within their own passion to be as one and never alone. He slowly gripped his crystal clear glass with a dark cloudy, ochre substance with small pearls screaming to get to the top like a diver desperate for air and be released from its almost omniscient prison.
The air was a dire smell of sweat and an aura of sleepiness departed constantly by a large barrel. The occasional drip could be heard from the roof which a tear from the sky fall through the mossy, scarred ceiling of slow business and prosperity fall into a bucket to form an inverted wave to circle outwards and then throw itself upwards like an acrobatic dancer in a colossal crash of surprise in the peak of the dance performance.
But he had seen this motion too many times for it was his life to surprise and to watch his audience leap away in an involuntary change of sentiment. He recalled a girl’s breathe and whimper as his figure appeared under a cobbled archway and feeling the split second of adrenaline as he saw the girl attempt to scream but nothing came out and just a cough and quick breathe as a silver point darted across like an eagle to be swallowed up in an opening of second-thoughts and well-earned drinking. Then a slow slug like action of removing the silver swan which had pounded into the almost limp figure was as red as a spring rose and dropping it’s petals like a stream. The figure fell to the ground in a twisting action and lay there; eyes glazed over and a crimson patch absorbed by the silk made by a sceptical tailor expand until it could not hold anymore and soon leak into the nooks and crannies between each individual cobble, soon to find its new home under the streets in London’s drains.
He looked down towards his left thumb. It started to quiver like a silk curtain in a highland gale. He slammed his fist almost passionately on the table and the beer, overturn on its side and spill onto the floor. The glass rolled slowly, like that of an ox dying of exhaustion. The drips slowly fell like a string with a constant supply of beads following one after the other. A constant sap dripping from a freshly cut tree trunk. No one looked up, they just sat there looking down at their foot or their heads buried in their arms slumped over the bar. He felt strange, very care-worn and chest fallen. His eyes could not picture anything clearly, his cheeks over-worn from his eyes dropping its pearls of glimmering, sparkling expression. Everything moved so slowly and yet, although he should have felt like a man of freedom and confidence. It had sunk below anything that resembled these human liberties. Was he in hell?
His eyes slowly trudged up towards the ceiling again. It was an effort even to move his weary eyes, he took a deep breathe, almost like a sigh of relief. Suddenly he heard a knock, that of a bench moving. His eyes darted down to see a figure dressed in a dull green dress, her face was elegant yet there was some type of difference in her. Was it an unpredictable division of character which he sensed in her? He had seen more women in his years than a fisherman caught fish which were suitable for retail. But, how come he could not figure this one out?
“Hello, you look a bit roughed up, tough night?” she said sweetly. He looked up and knew this woman was not looking for fornication.
“What is it? Why you bothering me?” he said gruffly. He expected the woman to be shocked by this slice of dismissal. She sat there calmly with her arms folded over her perfect frame of posture.
“Well, if my sources tell me correct, you’re the best killer in town.” She said with reassurance.
“You look the type, living off nothing yet you can get everything with a sharpened piece of steel. Quite complementary to have those skills if you ask me, you should use them well.”
Enraged he shouted “Well, what the bloody hell you know about me? Get away from me.”
She looked him up and down for a second or two, then took out a blue pouch and flunked it on the table. He heard a sound of glass breaking inside the bag.
“How much?” She said reassuringly
“Who you want?” conforming to her offer
“Jane Farrow, sixty-three, Berrybourne road.”
“I don’t dispatch women or kids anymore.”
“Look inside then. Maybe you’ll reconsider” He peered at her for a second or two. The deep, foggy haze that seemed to dull his almost blind sight from the insomnia and excessive binge drinking from the past week. He peered inside the pouch and carefully calculated the glowing gold faces that looked up at him.
“There’s enough money there for you to travel the world there.” He paused and leaned back into his chair which creaked like a cry.
“I’ll think about it, meet me here tomorrow at fort’s hour”
He stood up quickly and stormed out his cloak swaying side to side like a curtain held a draught.
He sat there in his little home of modesty and boldness. All that could be heard was the crows squawking for their meal picking the carrion of the hung, a sick mentality seemed to dawn on him yet was it the greed that encircled him to butcher yet another individual of God’s creation? He took another sip from a goblet and stared up at the candles flickering and participating in a movement of passion and trust within each other to never fault and keep in perfect sync. They shone onto his face and engraved their blessings upon him. They abandoned his eyes in a vague manor as to wish to never see what he saw. His glint that looked up was the only communication which they could see. Yet, what did that glint mean? Was it a thought or a way of deceit?
A fitting sense of guilt seemed to haze over him but what his greed told him was a tidal wave to the whisper of his good conscience. The bar was still disfigured by glasses, grease and the ghoulish windows that sprayed its everlasting sand coloured light from the lamp outside. He noticed the woman sitting in her perfect frame yet again, except she looked more in distress and emotional distortion. He approached her and she looked up, her expression suddenly changed to a distinctive neutral. She beckoned him to sit down with a graceful arm swing.