You are waiting.
And as you are waiting, you notice how the room takes on a different meaning as the sun goes down. It has been a matter of hours since you first unlocked the door and you walked in. The gun is in your hand, loosely held, on your lap. In a few minutes, when you hear the door unlock downstairs, your grip will tighten, but you will remain seated with your hand quietly on your thigh. There is a corpse in the study with you that is covered by the shadows of the retreating sun, the blood having been partially soaked up by the carpet.
Briefly, you remember entering and finding the wife here unexpectedly. You knew of the wife, knew of the target’s birthday, but the wife was supposed to be at work. She was home to bake a cake for the target. When she had heard the door opening, she exclaimed, “shit!”, because, most probably, she had thought you were him, and the surprise she had planned was ruined. She pouted as she came out of the kitchen, eyes closed, and then she had opened them as she entered the living room. Startled, her mouth half open with questions, that by your very presence, were answered. Her hands were tight against the texture of her slacks, the smoothness wrinkled by the pressure of them, her eyes never strayed from the volume of space that your standing in the living room entailed. You were amused. She had been as recently as yesterday, with another woman and now was baking a cake for the man that she claimed had her heart. There is much you know about the wife and the target, enough to have you here, enough to have withdrawn the gun from the long coat pocket, deep and comfortable pockets, and aim. She bolted back into the kitchen, you heard the clatter of stainless steel utensils, then the thumping of hurried steps, going up. There is a staircase in the back of the kitchen that leads both up and down. A spine leading from the second floor down to the basement. To your left there was a staircase also.
You do not normally kill women, but your knowledge of her, that she knows what the target does, a child pornographer, even helps him, brought you to the foot of the first step and evenly, steadily climbed up. At the top of the staircase, directly in front of it, was the bathroom, to right, the bedroom, both doors open. The back staircase gave access to the study on your left. You did not hear any movement. The door was also open. Walking down the hallway, you marveled at the irony of the events that were unfolding before you; you had planned to wait for the target in the study. Pausing at the doorway, again you listened. You then quickly entered the room, without apparent caution, stopping in the center of it.
Her mistake was not running down to the basement, where she would have had the dark to hide in. You had removed the fuse for the bottom half of the house the night before, but did not kill them for this reason: you were not paid for the woman. Since both were in bed in the early hours of the morning, and she a light sleeper from what you understood, you had decided to wait, fuse still in your pocket.
She screamed, charging at you from behind the door, where you had heard her rapid, shallow breathing. You turned. There was a clean, sharp knife in her hand, high above her head, the blade wide enough for the rays of sun to glint off of. The knife was in her right hand, so you sidestepped to the left, alongside it, it is almost impossible for anyone to swing their arm in a downward arc away from their chest. The gun was less than a foot away from her neck, your arm just underneath her elbow, knife safely away, useless. You fired, pulling the trigger just as the barrel made fleeting contact with her throat. The soft flesh of neck ripped open, you ducked as she spun violently and back, swinging above you, her head loose, the left corner of her jaw hanging off its hinge. She landed with a heavy dry thud, where she has bled since then, hidden now by shadows, as you have been waiting.
You hear the door open downstairs. The target is here. You imagine him taking off his coat, and as you do so, you hear the rustling of hangers and the creak of a door closing. There is silence, the target is probably expecting her to be in the house, it is his birthday after all, you know he is glancing into the kitchen. Thinking that she is in the bedroom, he will ascend the steps, after noticing the flour and powder on the cutting board in the kitchen. Several seconds go by after you have made your assumption. You hear him coming up the back stairs. Directly in front of you, because you have positioned the reclining chair that way, is the door that the stairs lead to. The target is bounding up and almost rushes practically onto your lap. He stops dead before you, perfectly still, perhaps thinking that he is dreaming, having a nightmare. He knows who you are, realizes that this is not a dream, he will not wake up again today. His lips tremble. You are wondering if he is thinking something as hollow as, ‘no, not now..’
In a whisper, you say, “..hello.”
He mutters, eyes filling, watery, his fingers beginning to shake, managing to ask, “wh-who?”, swallowing.
You stand, place a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tremor of his bones, the raised hairs close to his neck. Leaning forward, inches from his ear, slow and clear, “..birthdays are for children.”
He collapses in front of you, broken, sobbing. He begins to beg. “PLEASE-“, on his knees, arms wrapped around your legs, whimpering. Snot and tears begin to slide down the cheeks and mouth, lip curled back, yellow teeth pressed together. He tilts his head back, looking at you through small, pressed jelly eyes, choking, dribbling “-PLEEESE NO-”
You carefully place one hand behind his neck. The gun is in the other. You press the muzzle against his forehead.
“-PLEEESE OH GOD NO PLEEESE PLEEESE-”
You steady your grip. “..hold still.”