Hitlist | h.s

Two

He puzzled me.

His crisp blue eyes and the way he sulked about his living room. The pockets of his flooded jeans swallowedboth of his hands. His face was etched with worry lines and his eyes too far away to read. The boy looked out of sorts, even lost, like an aghast child drifted apart from his concerned mother.

I couldn't quite figure out what Dylan Abner was doing, but I knew that today was the day I was going to kill him. I had to. I didn't mind the kid as much as the rest of the scoundrels in the West gang, but it was his head or mine, and I definitely wanted to keep mine on long enough to get recognition for the death of the infamous Harry Styles.

As twisted and demonic as it sounded, I awaited the day when I would kill him, the day that when people saw me, their eyes would show fear, and they'd cringe at my very name whenever it came up. The satisfying images raced through my head at lightning speed constantly, that day so close I could almost taste it. I had no clue as to how I was going to kill Harry, but it would be done. There are only a few things I have to get around.

Firstly, that fact that he could kill me just as easily, if not easier, than I could kill him. Secondly, how do you kill someone who's the epitome of darkness, and gangs, and killing? The person whose only feeling is not feeling?

Well, I guess that's one thing he and I have in common.

I planted myself in the mass of bushes on the side of Dylan's dainty townhouse, the seat that was hidden with the best view into his home. The needles of the shrub poking into my skin tickled and scraped as the wind rustled them about. The constant prodding annoyed and irritated my arms, but I didn't have enough time to concentrate on the aggravating sensation.

The first half hour of my prowl, Dylan paced back-and-forth a countless number of times, for a reason which is unknown; however, the past two hours had consisted of the lanky boy sprawled lazily on the sofa, his arm dangling off the side as his fingertips graced the floor. Only just a minute ago had he gotten up to adjust the stereo, which had been blasting a strange mix of Radiohead and Billy Joel. I could have sworn I'd heard a Panic! At the Disco song in there too.

The coast seemed clear - clear enough to the point where my body began to tingle from adrenaline as my conscious planned a way to enter his abode. I gingerly pulled myself up off of the chilled ground, trying my very hardest to make the amount of noise a church mouse does. I came to a halt dead in my tracks as two hands jabbed into the sides of my rib cage. Startled, my body wrangled with the small daggers of the bush as it grazed me. With one swift motion, I was instantly turned around, knife drawn.

"You fucking bitch!" I whisper-yelled to the innocent-looking dark-haired girl as I gently pushed her back. Her choppy chocolate locks stuck to the peach of her lips as her bewildered face stared back at my own.

"Mel, I almost fucking killed you!"

"Oops," she half-smiled, "is this where you've been all day?" her monotonous voice asked, her eyes full of confusion.

"Yes, Melissa!" I rolled my eyes, the words hurriedly spilling from my mouth. "Unlike you, I have a job to do. I can't be making out with my boyfriend all day."

She testily rolled her eyes at me. I knew I was talking about a touchy subject, but I believe it's completely justified considering the fact she'd been sabotaging my homicide mission.

Melissa was one of the girls in our gang who didn't have to kill people, yet she was the one who wanted to most. She was used to lure in the guys, which was more than easy for her. With her pouty lips and innocent eyes, she looked like the opposite of anything even remotely gang related.