When I look in the mirror, I see the man I couldn’t kill.

I had never killed a man before and the boss knew that, but he still gave me the job. Rejecting it was out of the question so that left me with one simple question: how the hell am I supposed to kill someone?

I could tie a rope around his ankles while he’s sleeping, slip the other end on my truck and speed down the road. Maybe start a gas leak in his apartment building, blame the sudden explosion on poor maintenance.

Or I could just run him over with my car

I only had three days to figure it out so I put Google to good use. I didn’t make my searches too obvious of course. Wouldn’t want the FBI or CIA to track me down because of something as silly as browser history

“Cool shows about serial killers.” Morbid, I know. But I’m not a serial killer nor do I strive to be. I just need to kill one person. But some of these people were creative ways getting away with murder and I figured the best way to learn is to study the greats. At least that’s what my History teacher taught me

This one guy, Dedrick Turner, spent four months evading the police, butchering innoncent people across the state of Minnesota. He’d pose as a mailman, break into someone’s house in braod daylight, kill them, then slip away before anyone was the wiser. Though he’d always get away, he did have a habit of leaving a big mess. And my job is to make it look like an accident. Next

Harriet Greene was a nurse at Goldwich County General Hospital. Twenty years would go by before Harriet was finally caught as the Hospital Killer—a notorious serial killer was known for meticulously poisoning her victims. She was already in her mid-80s by the time they caught her.

Jacob Swinton. Amariah Sims. O’Mar Gallatin. Next. Next. Next.

Nothing here inspires me.

Maybe that’s the point. Killing isn’t supposed to be inspiring. Not in my line of work. To do what I do, you have to see it as a job.

But then your target is behind the barrel. The gun’s loaded. The silencer’s tucked on tight. And no one’s around you guys for miles.

The world around you is dark. The wind whistles softly and you can see nothing but road stretch for miles. It’s just you and the man you’re supposed to kill

He’s on his knees, wrists bound behind his back and eyes a bloodshot red. He looks tired. Probably from all of the screaming

And all you have to do is pull the trigger. Just pull it and it’ll all be over.

But you don’t.

You can’t.

So you make up some excuse weeks later when your boss asks how the mission went. You tell him how he pleaded for his life and offered you a large sum of money, to which you tell him that of course you said no and of course you beat him up for it

Then you tell your collegaues that you’ll be right back and retreat to the bathroom. You haven’t had a second to yourself yet. Too many people congratulating you on your first mission

You look up and catch your reflection in the mirror. But it’s not your face looking back at you. It’s the man you couldn’t kill. It’s your father