Deadlock

I do not own the picture. 

This story is based on Macbeth. please do not copy this story the characters are for the respected William Shakespear, but I own the plotline. It is rude to steal something. 

DISCLAIMER this has death. 

Dear Mr. Macbeth

Subject: Benjamin Banks;

D.O.B: 13/7/1996, 23 years of age;

Subject description: Male, brown hair, brown eyes, height 188cm, Caucasian;

Job description: Station yourself on top of the 3rd city building, frenzy circle at 1800 hours. The subject will be leaving work. Upon seeing the subject, shoot on sight.

I crush the page. Reciting the words over and over again, in disbelief of this job report. Why must my life be like this? Why? Why? Why! No, stop these thick-witted ideas, this is your job, I can't say no - but I really don't want to do this one.

Stop this, Macbeth. You know the threats if you don't do it, they'll kill your Lady Macbeth. Damn those witches. I must see them about this matter, it must be a mistake.

I walk through the corridors of the building to see those infernal witches. I keep walking, studying all the consequences that could come out of this talk. I arrive at, a big mahogany timber door. The entrance presents itself with the mystery and stygian quality that I am too familiar with. I beat the door, anticipating for a response.

"Appear," says somebody or someone from inside. It's always troublesome to tell who it is. I open the door, as expected. Nothing. No one knows who they are or what they look like. Always out of eyes' view, but I call them the witches.

"Good morrow, to thee," I say.

"Good morrow Macbeth, stop with the Shakespeare," The witches state monotoned, clearly not impressed.

"As you wish. You should have the assumption of this unprecedented meeting," I respond.

"Yes, we do, but why do you not wish to do this. Don't you want to keep your 'Lady Macbeth' alive? You can either conclude this and abolish him, or your lady shall be no more," they announce. Hearing the sneer behind those words, I grit my teeth in annoyance of being a hitman, but those witches seem to have dug a deeper hole for me than expected.

"Am I dismissed?" I say, trying to hinder my anger.

"Yes, leave us, before that temper of yours is your undoing." They mutter, in the same monotoned voice. What did they mean by that? Never mind. I leave that torturous place and begin to make my way to my quarters. Down through the winding corridors, up to the staircase to my quarters.

I open the creaky and tenebrous door. Inside, is a spacious living studio. It has a kitchen with a couch, and two entrances on my right; one leading to the bathroom, and the other to mine and my lady's quarters. From floor to ceiling windowpanes letting light in throughout the studio.

I enter my room to find Lady Macbeth perching herself on the edge of the bed; staring at me like she was waiting for me to open the door.

"Good morning my lady, what awakes you at this hour?"

"Good morning my lord. When I woke up, I didn't feel you beside me. I wondered where you could've gone." She replied.

"I...have...a... job, this one is one I believe I cannot do," I reply slowly.

"How so?" her answer, showing investment. Staring at me with eyes of intent. Once she's curious, you are unable to leave until she has results.

"Well, I have to kill... Ben...Oh Lady, we could run away! Leave these witches to do their own crafts and forget all of this!" I respond, raising my voice.

"Macbeth. Who are you? What are you? Do you think we could just leave? What kind of man are you!?" She questions.

"I am a man, but this is Benjamin. Benjamin! He's been a dear friend since you decided I should do this business and kill Duncan!" I say with haste in my voice.

"Calm down, we have nothing to lose, and we can't go anywhere. You know what the sacrifices, of leaving are. If we leave, I vanish. We don't want that. We don't know what those witches are capable of." She says calmly.

She has a point. I just have to not think. Just kill him. Think of him as someone else, like I don't know who he is. I start to calm down. She wraps her hands around my shoulders.

"Good, now get ready. I'll tell the witches that you're doing the job," she mutters in my ear, kissing me on the jaw.

I commence my preparation to get ready, looking like any other mediocre person. My rifle is inside a guitar case. I haul it around my back, I begin to lead back to the witches, slipping through the winding corridors. I open the mahogany door with neither hesitation nor emotion. As presumed, no one is there, but another door. 'I hate this,' I ponder to myself as I walk to the door, ready to open it. I do.

I realise I am on the top floor of the building. Wait. Isn't it seven in the morning? The mission isn't till 1800 hours? I stare at my watch, '1700', five o'clock, okay that gives me some time to set up, but Ben. He was my best friend, but he may not have known about my job. What of his family? I heard he had a son. No, you have to do this, this is your job. 1750. I...must...do...this. I set up the rifle from my guitar, using the case as a ledge. I'm sorry Ben. 1759. I push my finger up against the trigger. 1800. I look through the scope, tears streaming down my face. I see him. I shoot. I hear the screams from all the way up here.

The door appears like magic. I walk through it, tears still running, but when I get back 'home', I hear footsteps, bellowing footsteps. I open the guitar case, readying for intruders. The mahogany door opens.

"Macduff."