The Hit List

Chapter 11

Yesterday I never would've pictured a man in my kitchen. A man with a gun. Not in my dreamless sleep. An invitation to talk on his tongue. 

I had never been very good at thinking of the consequences of my actions. But I had just assumed that the worst consequence was exactly what I wanted. 

People would judge me if they knew how I wished to die. For the way I prayed to be struck by something terminal. Figuratively on my knees, asking the universe to take my life into its hands. 

I craved the endlessness of peace that the drink would provide me, my hands feeling empty without a glass within them.

I looked at Hitch, my fingers repeatedly scratching against my palm. Not enough to do any damage, but enough to place some attention onto the feeling.

My breath was deep before I spoke, being contained within my closed mouth and falling out through my nostrils.

"I'd rather they think I didn't choose it." He breathed in as well, almost as though he was taking the oxygen I was giving to the room. I needed to speak things into the cosmos and this man just so happened to be there, even though I didn't want to say anything to him. I was made to feel as though I couldn't keep my thoughts to myself, which was a lesson in human conditioning.

"They don't deserve that; they'll just put the responsibility on themselves. It's not their fault I ended up this way. I would kill myself right away if they could only be angry with me for doing it. But they won't. That's why I'd rather they hated you.

"I'd rather them hate you than hate themselves. It's nothing personal." I feel myself spiral, my heart pulsing loudly over the sound of my words picking up speed.

"They wouldn't even really hate you, because they wouldn't know you. They'd hate the idea of you. The monster in the night who killed me. You'd get off scot-free." 

The differences between us are subtle but distinct. A person who wants answers, and another who wants a means to an end. Deciphering whether they can agree on their wants.

Hating that we have to rely on one another to succeed. 

He steadied himself, both hands taking up homes in his pockets. "They'd know."

I could feel my eyebrows move as my forehead scrunched with my inability to understand two relatively simple words. "Not if you don't want them to. If you do it right."

It would be so simple to give up trying to persuade him that my decision was the right one at this very moment. to disregard what he says after that. My stomach churned at the thought of being turned away as if it contained an alien monster that was itching to get out.

His cards clenched in his hand, his face immobile. "I'd want to."

He waited patiently in silence, knowing I wouldn't leave him there very long. He was fine not having the last word, as he knew he'd forever be the owner of the first. My eyes shifted around the room, searching for anything to assist me in finding words once more. Knowing there was nothing I owned that would help me out of this purgatory. 

The wine had long made a home in my system, providing a loss of anxiousness, but seemingly hindering my grasp of the human language. 

I wanted to scream until my voice was hoarse. To scare him with my feelings. To cause him to run and never look back. Yet I was treating him better than those I claimed to love. 

I always seemed to do that. To hurt those closest to me, while treating strangers with care. I always have. 

"Why would you want them to know? It doesn't have to be that way. Just take the money and run with it."