The husband

As I was saying, business was slow that day, which made me quite happy. I just sat back in my chair and stared at the ceiling. In my line of work, it’s nice to have a break. But not so often, because I don’t get any money when I’m on holiday. And I definitely don’t get any money when I don’t get the job done. So, there are no holidays for me. I don’t mind. I do what I was born to do, and that is it. You know exactly what I’m talking about.
Then a client stepped in and I had to sit up and look focused. I have bills to pay and I had been daydreaming for too long. She was blunt, in a hurry, gave me all the details, asked for the price and didn’t haggle, which is a good sign, made sure her shades were still on, got up and left. The envelope on my desk was full, maybe even too much. Her husband had only a day left to live.
If I try hard enough, I can remember my first job. It was more of paying off a debt than a job, actually. It was either that or having my fingers cut off, one per week. It was a simple choice. The target was much more in debt than me, but it didn’t seem to bother him. He was sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus, and when I approached him and said his name, just to check, he squinted and tried to get his glasses out of his coat pocket, but there was no time to put them on. I shot him right between the eyes, his brains splashed against the cement bench, and it took him a couple of seconds to slip to his left side, dropping the glasses on the floor. I slowly walked away, and all I felt was relief. My fingers were safe.
I know how careless this may have sounded, but, for real, when people see something like that, and they can identify who did it, they are also certain that who did it can identify them. So they just keep it shut.
There were many jobs after this first one. I had many names, many addresses, many customers, many guns, many offices. I made many mistakes, but none affected me. I slept like a baby. Until the last job, the husband.
I never cared why people wanted to have other people killed. Their motives, I mean. It felt such a natural act when I did it for the first time. There was no rush, no sweating, no nervousness. It was a job, nothing else, but this time it paid off. I got the names of the targets, their routines, the way they looked and any other detail that would be relevant. I never cared about their lives, if they would be missed, if they had a brilliant future ahead of them or if they had led a perfect past, if they had children, parents or lovers, if they were crooks or law-abiding citizens. All I cared about was seeing them heave their last breath, and the money that I would get for it.
But there was something else about the husband. Something I couldn’t figure out until it was too late.
I knew what time he would leave his office. I was in place, I was ready, like so many times before this one. The description I had been given was thorough. You know how it works. I saw him. Wearing a dark blue suit over a striped shirt, a red tie and carrying a black suitcase, he stepped out of the office building. He was tall, slim, had dark brown hair and green eyes, was left-handed, had a scar next to the elbow on his right arm and had shaven that morning. I saw all that in a second.
The description she had given me was thorough, not accurate. There was so much more to him than I could possibly have thought. He walked with a strange pace, a rhythm that gave him confidence, like every step he took was meaningful. He stopped to talk to a friend, or a colleague, and his right arm waved to get his glasses out of the inner pocket of his jacket. He smiled and nodded the whole time, he looked interested in whatever it was that the other person was saying. He held his suitcase with his left hand, and his right hand was on his hip, in such a casual manner that made him look so decent, so natural. It seemed like he would always have something to say, and whatever he said would be precise, conscious. His hair was shining against the sun, and behind his thin glasses his eyes were so focused. The other person left and he started walking again, looking at the ground.
I caught myself thinking, for the first time in so many years, what the target was like, what his life was like. I wanted to know about his childhood, where he grew up and what his favorite food was. I imagined him hanging out with friends, his awkward first kiss. The first time he drove a car, the excitement of being in control. The day he decided what he would do for a living, his aspirations and his doubts. The first time he met his wife, the first time they made love and when he was sure she was the one for him. His wedding, the vows he took. The birth of his first child, the anxiety, the expectations. What he thought about the world we live in, his taste in movies, in literature, in music. Everything. And there could be so much, much more to him than met the eye.
He mattered to me, somehow.

I walked up to him and called out his name, and my voice betrayed me. He was in the parking lot, the perfect place, the perfect timing. He stopped and turned around. I was so close to him I could see the little imperfections on his skin, the beard that had already started to grow, each hair in his head, the movement of his chest while he was breathing. I placed my left hand on his right shoulder, and he looked at me not with confusion, but with interest. I looked him in the eye and opened my mouth, but nothing came out. This moment lingered in my mind, although it must have lasted only a couple of seconds. I hesitated, I was unsure.
I shot him in the heart and held his left arm to slow down his fall. He kept looking at me. I shot him again in the chest. He was still looking at me.
I walked away and I knew what I had to do, and that is why I’m here before you. I’m here because I deserve to die; I deserve to pay for my action. I’m here because I no longer want to be what I am, and there is nothing else I can be. I am your client and your target.