The Unwilling Grim Reaper of Christmas

Now the skeleton is lying on top of Santa, making out with him.

I just marvel at the sight from the couch with a deep sigh. Even the decorations have more fun than me.

I wasn't ready to bring out the Christmas decorations just yet. A lot of people immediately take out their Christmas decorations, ready and hungry for the end of the year, but I linger.

The year has gone by too fast.

Mariah Carey can't start singing just yet.

The plastic cobwebs and tangled Christmas lights intertwine as they lie on the floor. Fighting the past and strangling the future.

A horrible joust between the seasons.

A breeze from the open window makes the plastic bats flutter, hanging in the closet. As the bats dangle, I feel compelled to just take out my gun and shoot them, but of course, having a bullet hole in my closet is unadvisable.

There are only two bullet holes in these walls. The two on the stairwell, from when that sketchy neighbour tried to shoot me.

It was also his last shot.

The sketchy neighbour is now forever sleeping far away in the woods.

I take out my gun without shooting the bats and turn it in the light. I really need to clean it, but I have been putting it off.

I told someone at the office I was in a rut.

"Oh, darling, it's okay. We all go through a phase, especially this time of year. We are all tired and just want the year to end."

She did not understand. I just don't want to kill people anymore.

With my feet outstretched on the arm of the couch and an unclean gun in hand, I look at the clock on the wall.

I could go now, but then it would be much too early. I could have done something with my time, but I have been sitting here for almost forty minutes, feeling jealous of decorations getting more action than me.

Behold, the lazy contract killer with a boring desk job as a cover, who is contemplating career decisions.

The branches being blown by the wind outside look particularly interesting as I let more time go by that I will never get back.

I get up. Get into the car and put the location of the next target into the GPS.

The parking lot is quiet, but my mind is too loud. Full of utter nonsense and random daydreams with no meaning or origin.

My focus has become as sharp as a butter knife, and I have been as distracted as a Labrador in a ball pit these last few days.

The target walks out of the elevator with a spring in his step and a goofy smile on his face. Either something great has happened or wherever he is going is full of promise.

"Don't look so happy, you asshole," I murmur as I see him walking closer. It will only make it harder to kill him.

Reluctantly, I get out of the car and fire twice, but to my surprise and his, I miss twice.

He stands completely still, gaping, but only mimics my confusion.

I missed. Why?

His eyes are wide and questioning. Wondering if the confused man in front of him will actually shoot him this time.

We stand for an awkward moment in the parking lot.

"Leave the country and never, ever come back. You understand?"

I try not to shout, and he just nods and runs away, clutching his briefcase.

As he runs away, my gun lifts and focuses on the back of his head. The perfect shot that I should take.

The parking lot only echoes his hurried footsteps, with no gunshot to end the sound of his running.

Sitting in the car, dazed, the cellphone's ring snaps me back to reality.

"Good evening, Agent Dice. What is your status?"

"Mission accomplished," I say automatically and quickly put the phone down.

I put my hand over my mouth. Great, now I screwed up twice.

I sigh and put my head against the steering wheel, but immediately sit upright as I honk the car horn.

With a grumble and the car in gear, I search for the target's residential address.

Pulling up to the house, I sit and wait to see a man frantically emptying out his closet into his suitcase to flee, but he does not. From the street, I can see no frantic packing, but his car is still in the driveway.

Getting out to investigate, I stroll up the garden path next to a well-manicured lawn and do something I have never done before as a contract killer.

I confidently ring the doorbell.

A few moments later, the door opens, and the little man opens it, but his jaw drops as he sees me.

"I almost killed you, and now you're cooking?!" I shove his aproned chest angrily.

"I was going to leave tomorrow."

The palm of my hand slaps my forehead in annoyance.

"I want you out of this country TODAY, either alive or DEAD."

"But WHY?" He looks mortified as he asks me.

"Oh, my soul! I don't know WHY! I don't know who wants you dead. I just need to KILL you?!"

"You're going to kill me?" His eyebrows raise.

"No! I wanted you to come pack and leave."

He nods tearfully. "But who will take care of my fish?"

I gape at him, and unfortunately, even if my facial expression is deceiving and my mind is blank, my hand does the thinking for me and shoots him.

The gun only makes a soft whisper of a blow, but he's dead.

I stare at the body on the floor, now being drained of blood. I swallow, then tuck my pistol back into my jacket pocket, which it had unexpectedly flown out of, and close the front door.

I drag my feet back to the car and sit outside the house for probably an hour.

Eventually, I drive back home. Slumping back onto the couch again, my right hand comes to my face. I realise the hand that has betrayed me, but acted on instinct, is trying to comfort me. I cover my eyes to stop any tears, but I start crying.

A few sobs escape me as I stumble to the desk, open my laptop and send an email to head office saying I would like to resign immediately.

With a sniffle, I take the skeleton to bed to lie next to me in the dark.

I can't sleep.

I toss and turn, haunted by the weight of my own breathing. My very own existence is unsettling to me.

I tear up and toss onto my side, spooning the skeleton. How ironic, the harbinger of death next to a skeleton. But I disgustedly push it off the bed at the thought.

It was a year ago when I made the grave mistake.

No pun intended.

I had to kill a man named Rick McCarthy on his way home the night before Christmas.

I slit his throat from behind, and he dropped the presents he was carrying.

It was only moments, but I could see the horror in his eyes as he bled out.

I left, but turned back, took the presents and delivered them to the house.

They would be the last presents they would ever get from him.

I opened the door and knew immediately it was a mistake. The kids were so small. I should have never gone. I never knew, and the company never said anything. They never did, and it unfortunately never had anything to do with my job.

I stared into their wide, sparkly eyes, and my spirits were crushed.

They took the presents without question, and I ran.

I thought it would be better if the recipients of the gifts were happier opening presents obliviously than finding them next to a dead body.

I took the presents in an act of mercy, but I doomed my own soul.

This year, I should get those kids Christmas presents.

The contract killer will be wearing a Santa Claus costume.