"Five Things Charly Baltimore Thinks About At Night"
One more from My Five Things Meme! greenovalfruit asked for "Five Things Charly Baltimore Thinks About At Night." I broke the typical format of this one; it just seemed to work better this way. *G* Hope you like!
She waits. She waits a lot, she doesn't mind. She sits with her back in the corner and looks out the window at the flashing neon sign on the building next door. God, if you lived next to such a monstrosity, why wouldn't you invest in a couple of blinds? LIQUOR flashed against the retinas until she managed to block it out in favor of moonlight.
God, she wanted a cigarette. But she couldn't risk alerting her target. So she chewed on a toothpick, crushing the end between her teeth.
She wondered what normal people did when they had insomnia. Read, probably. Maybe take a walk. If they were lucky enough to have someone, maybe they got laid for their trouble. She ended up alone in a dark room with her thoughts.
The first thought was always the first one. The first death at her hands. God, she'd been sloppy. She'd chosen to do it up-close, get the thrill of watching someone's life slip away. It had been an unforgivable mistake. Her knife had missed the mark by an inch and he turned, he saw her face and fought her as his blood gushed over her hands.
After that, she became a fan of guns.
She thinks of children. She'd had a scare not long ago, the result of getting too close to a mark. If it had turned into something, would she have aborted it? Or waited eight years and had the talk: "Well, honey, ten minutes after your Daddy and I conceived you, I put a gun into his ear and blew him away.
She'd teach her child how to shoot. How to kill. How to survive. It might actually be worth having a child just to ensure a progeny. Of course, progeny can also turn on you. Her smile faded at that; best to just be a lone wolf. Her body was a weapon. Allow a brat to take her out of commission for nine months? Yeah. Right. That would happen.
That's not to say she didn't want to settle down some day. She couldn't kill forever. God knew that was true. She was already starting to feel the ache, the weariness setting in. It wasn't depression or age. It was just so old. Killing, watching someone fall without a whimper... She was good at her job. Too good. After a while, it became monotonous.
She put her feet up and wondered what her husband would look like. Or, hell, a woman. She was equal opportunity. She'd bedded a fair share of her female targets. Wouldn't have to worry about pregnancy in that case.
A white picket fence, in any case, was out of the question. She'd never be able to settle down in one house, no matter if she married or shacked up with anyone. Too many people knew what she looked like... too many people could track her down if she wasn't careful. Roots were dangerous; they could strangle you. But still, it was nice to picture the house. A garden, maybe. A little treehouse out back if she did ever let one slip.
When thoughts of suburbia fade from her mind, she's left with only one other thing. Mistakes. She'd been targeted to kill people who were still living. If she ever saw one of them on the news or heard their name in connection with some new atrocity, she never failed to feel sharp glass at the back of her neck. I failed, it said. I failed and he's still doing whatever should have gotten him (or her, like she said... equal opportunity murderer) put in the ground.
It was almost midnight and she'd made it to thoughts of suburbia when the key turned in the lock. She pushed her feet against the floor, sliding her back up the wall until she was standing in the shadow by the window. The door opened and her target stepped in. His face was illuminated by the flashing LIQUOR.
He dropped his keys on the counter, too entranced with the plastic bag in his hand than the woman in the corner. He tore it open and finally looked up as a gun-shaped shadow rose out of the wall. "Oh, shit," he gasped.
She recognized his face in the neon glow, but when he looked up she'd confirmed it. She pulled the trigger and he dropped out of sight.
Charly picked up the spent case and slipped it into her pocket. She took the heroin, making sure to sprinkle some around to make it look like a drug hit, and left the apartment.
From the street, she withdrew her cell phone and dialed the pre-determined number. There was no voice on the other end, just a quiet click as the connection was made. "Tell the Senator he doesn't have to worry about what the kid knows anymore."
She hung up and walked on.
She wouldn't have a hard time sleeping tonight.
She waits. She waits a lot, she doesn't mind. She sits with her back in the corner and looks out the window at the flashing neon sign on the building next door. God, if you lived next to such a monstrosity, why wouldn't you invest in a couple of blinds? LIQUOR flashed against the retinas until she managed to block it out in favor of moonlight.
God, she wanted a cigarette. But she couldn't risk alerting her target. So she chewed on a toothpick, crushing the end between her teeth.
She wondered what normal people did when they had insomnia. Read, probably. Maybe take a walk. If they were lucky enough to have someone, maybe they got laid for their trouble. She ended up alone in a dark room with her thoughts.
The first thought was always the first one. The first death at her hands. God, she'd been sloppy. She'd chosen to do it up-close, get the thrill of watching someone's life slip away. It had been an unforgivable mistake. Her knife had missed the mark by an inch and he turned, he saw her face and fought her as his blood gushed over her hands.
After that, she became a fan of guns.
She thinks of children. She'd had a scare not long ago, the result of getting too close to a mark. If it had turned into something, would she have aborted it? Or waited eight years and had the talk: "Well, honey, ten minutes after your Daddy and I conceived you, I put a gun into his ear and blew him away.
She'd teach her child how to shoot. How to kill. How to survive. It might actually be worth having a child just to ensure a progeny. Of course, progeny can also turn on you. Her smile faded at that; best to just be a lone wolf. Her body was a weapon. Allow a brat to take her out of commission for nine months? Yeah. Right. That would happen.
That's not to say she didn't want to settle down some day. She couldn't kill forever. God knew that was true. She was already starting to feel the ache, the weariness setting in. It wasn't depression or age. It was just so old. Killing, watching someone fall without a whimper... She was good at her job. Too good. After a while, it became monotonous.
She put her feet up and wondered what her husband would look like. Or, hell, a woman. She was equal opportunity. She'd bedded a fair share of her female targets. Wouldn't have to worry about pregnancy in that case.
A white picket fence, in any case, was out of the question. She'd never be able to settle down in one house, no matter if she married or shacked up with anyone. Too many people knew what she looked like... too many people could track her down if she wasn't careful. Roots were dangerous; they could strangle you. But still, it was nice to picture the house. A garden, maybe. A little treehouse out back if she did ever let one slip.
When thoughts of suburbia fade from her mind, she's left with only one other thing. Mistakes. She'd been targeted to kill people who were still living. If she ever saw one of them on the news or heard their name in connection with some new atrocity, she never failed to feel sharp glass at the back of her neck. I failed, it said. I failed and he's still doing whatever should have gotten him (or her, like she said... equal opportunity murderer) put in the ground.
It was almost midnight and she'd made it to thoughts of suburbia when the key turned in the lock. She pushed her feet against the floor, sliding her back up the wall until she was standing in the shadow by the window. The door opened and her target stepped in. His face was illuminated by the flashing LIQUOR.
He dropped his keys on the counter, too entranced with the plastic bag in his hand than the woman in the corner. He tore it open and finally looked up as a gun-shaped shadow rose out of the wall. "Oh, shit," he gasped.
She recognized his face in the neon glow, but when he looked up she'd confirmed it. She pulled the trigger and he dropped out of sight.
Charly picked up the spent case and slipped it into her pocket. She took the heroin, making sure to sprinkle some around to make it look like a drug hit, and left the apartment.
From the street, she withdrew her cell phone and dialed the pre-determined number. There was no voice on the other end, just a quiet click as the connection was made. "Tell the Senator he doesn't have to worry about what the kid knows anymore."
She hung up and walked on.
She wouldn't have a hard time sleeping tonight.