The first kill

She’s been trained for it for years. Target practices at shooting ranges, close combat training, hours of lectures on human anatomy, nights of crawling through dirt in camouflage, being invisible. She’s done all that, passed with flying colors.

Now she’s crouching behind bushes with a man in front of her; a man she’s supposed to kill. He doesn’t know she’s there, doesn’t know his life is about to end. He thinks he’s going to finish reading the morning paper and go to work, and he believes he’ll return to his wife tonight despite the blonde woman still sleeping on the bed.

She wonders what it will feel like, taking a life. She’s hungry for it. They’ve said during training that most feel guilty, that many break from it. She’s not going to be so weak.

He moves and she has the perfect angle. She fires, silencer doing it’s job. He doesn’t have time to react; the bullet impacts his forehead and he’s dead before he hits the ground, falling off the chair to the floor with a thud.

And then she smiles, because as she looks at the blood pooling around his head, she feels only satisfaction and pride over a job well done.

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Author’s notes: This was written in response to this prompt.

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