Another short story

"Look down the barrel of my gun, my hands on the trigger. Any last words?"

"What are you trying to pull?"

"That's it?"

I pull the trigger and watch him fall back. Worthless shit. I did him a favor and put him out of his misery.

I put the gun in his lifeless hands. I write a note telling those close to him his suicide. I walk out of the apartment and light a smoke.

"Exciting isn't it?"

I casually talk to myself every so often. Don't judge.

I kill people. It's my job. Why would I even do this in the first place? Death doesn't bug me. The cries of people wanting their lives; I don't feel shit. Any hesitation before I cut through the throat of a mother of four? No, I feel satisfaction. I do this job since it helps me. It pays well, and it satisfies my thirst for blood shed.

I hate people. I hate the society I'm forced to dwell in. Each generation gets worse and worse. Every night I want to just save this world from such stupidity; just put on my jacket and take out everyone that sparks anger in me. Every night is worse and worse. My hate for this media controlled society is bound to make me snap. In case it happens, I keep myself prepared.

I meet my client in an alley.

"Have any smokes on you bud?

I hand him one.

"Thanks, How did the old fart go?"

"The usual, a quick shot. I gave him some time to think of what to say, he chose not to."

"Damn man. Well whatever, here's your pay."

He hands me a wad of hundred dollar bills. I count 10,000. I pull out my gun.

"Your short."

I cock the hammer back.

"Shit, my bad man, here's the other thousand."

"Good, you're lucky you paid fast enough, I was about to kill you."

He runs off. Fucking pussy.

I wave for a taxi. During the drive in the backseat I fall asleep and have a dream.

I dream of myself in a pasture, just laying in the grass. I fall into a deeper sleep. I imagine the sun on my face. I imagine the leaves falling ever so gently on my body.

"That'll be 45 dollars."

For that short taxi ride, the anger I had when I am awake was slowly released from me. I felt like I was... at peace. Only in dreams, I encounter this feeling. When I wake up, I feel that emptiness. I start to feel angry once again.

I go into my apartment. I go onto my bed and sleep. Again, I dream of the pasture.

The following morning I wake up. I feel like shit, I want to go back to sleep but I find myself unable to. I go out and meet my client. Today, I have to kill a baseball player's son.

Night comes. I sneak into the window. The kid's sleeping. My client wanted him dead by hanging. I take the child and choke him until he's unconscious. I tie a belt to the doorknob and place the kid's throat there. Only time will kill him. I have to make this look like a suicide. I pull out a pen and paper and try my best to write as shitty as possible. I try to write:

" Dad,
You were never there for me when I really needed the help. I felt lonely and I wanted out.

-Sam"

Ahh, it's almost my finest job to date. I get out and pull out a smoke. I meet my client in the alley.

"How do you feel?"

"Don't feel shit."

"Here's the pay."

I count the wad of hundred dollar bills; 20000$. This time he's right on the dot.

I follow the same same process as the night before. I go into a taxi, sleep, dream, go to apartment, sleep dream. Whenever I dream, I feel at peace.

For the next month, I'm booked with people to kill. Every day and night goes exactly the same. However there's one difference every night. I want to go back to that pasture longer and longer. That feeling alone makes this emptiness start to hurt.

It's the beginning of March. I feel worse than ever. I reached my peak. I really want to stay sleeping. I had said earlier I had prepared for this. I reach into my closet and pull out a note. I read it aloud:

"I want to stay in the pastures"

As I do with many of my victims I look down the barrel of my gun. I ask myself "Any last words?"

I don't say anything. I push the trigger.

I wake up. I see the sun and the grass. I made it into the pasture.