A Short Story

An assassin occupies a niche market particular to humanities worst tendencies.

When one pauses upon the word, it's striking. "Assassin" denotes a particular skill and delicacy but it is juxtaposed with the cruelest transgression. The elegant fingers of a harpist pluck in defiance of our moral code, "Thou Shalt Not Kill."

"The taste of cinnamon rolls gets me sexually aroused" she said, flicking the ash off the end of her cigarette. The red of the cigarette's tip flared, and I saw its color reflected in the glitter of her dark eyes.

I despise her. In close quarters I can barely stand it, every little movement grates on my nerves. The slightest intake of breath, even just feeling her present, arouses a tempest of hate that flickers through every free synapse that I have.

I hate her pathetic affectations. Every time she uses "anon" instead of "soon" like our life is some kind of overwrought 19th century romance novel, I swear to God I'm going to kill her. But the red clears from my eyes before I can find a sharp enough knife in the kitchen.

She is the only person I would kill carelessly. She is the only person I would kill for free.

Caning.
Courtroom.
Hubbub.