A typical Saturday with the typical line-up at the local dry cleaners. He hadn’t planned to come today but with his schedule he had no choice.
Waiting in queue he closed his eyes and was taken back to another place, another time, it was years before when his world had been focused on life and death were the call to arms had taken him to the killing fields.
He was good at his job, one of the best in the regiment, his commanding officers attributed it to his steady hand, excellent eyesight and above all to his clinical approach to his mission- the best qualities for a sniper.
He knew otherwise, he enjoyed it, he never admitted it to anyone, could hardly admit it to himself but it was there, deep down like a drug growing stronger with each hunt, each kill.
His thoughts took him back to his last mission. He was on his own, doing what was nicely called mopping up. His adversary was stubborn, they’d been exchanging shots for an hour or more.
Something caught his eye to the left to the target, a reflection in one of the remaining Church windows, the sun had created a mirror effect on the glass giving him a partial view of his intended kill.
Cautiously he moved to the right to get the best view corridor, it took some time and the back tracking had left him with an extremely long shot. Carefully taking into account the wind, gravity and deflection needed he slowly squeezed the trigger.
The bullet hit the target in its upper torso and spun it out into the open, he was sure the shot had killed the man, but for some reason he felt compelled to see him up close.
Approaching, he saw there was still life in the body. When he had fallen he’d landed on his front, head in the sand, and with each weak breath bubbles of pink sand formed around his face.
Instead of dispatching his enemy with another round, he rolled him over onto his back. Looking up at him was a young boy barley in his teens. It was the child’s eyes that hit him, they ripped through his soul shredding each fiber, he held the boy in his arms trying to sew back the tatters of both of their lives, pleading for forgiveness.
A voice dragged him back to the present, the voice of the cashier.
“I am sorry Father but there are some stains on your cassock that we could not remove.”
“I know, his hollow reply.”
About the Author:
Mr GMM Tapestry is a poor Sod that is trapped inside a working stiff’s body who on occassion needs a degree of legal escapism.