“The Hit” by Shivani Parikh
Ping. His phone screen illuminated the dark room.
He sighed, rolling over to open the message.
He stiffened instantly when he saw who it was from.
Midnight; tomorrow. Do not be late.
He sent a quick thumbs up, rolling his eyes. These people always got a kick out of making the correspondence before jobs as dramatic as possible. When you had been in the business for as long as he had, you learned to put up with all kinds of folk.
This woman had been unusual, but no more so than his usual clientele. She had been odd but not unpleasant, so he had taken the request.
The actual details of the hit were fairly usual.
A standard shooting, clean and simple.
He switched off his phone and shut his eyes, knowing sleep would be a long time coming for him.
In the morning, he was awoken by the insufferably cheerful sound of chirping birds. He had half a mind to pull out his gun just so they would shut up.
If I shoot just one of them, it would send a message to those other twats. But he showed impressive restraint and closed his window, deciding to keep a low profile instead.
In the weeks leading up to today he had been feeling fairly relaxed about this job. The target was an elderly woman who would probably sleep through the entire thing. He never asked his clients for their motivations, but if he had to guess, the poor geezer was probably loaded with a hefty life insurance policy.
So it was to his surprise that, despite the simplicity of the case, he found himself filled with a growing sense of dread as the day progressed. He had been going through his messages with the client, jotting down important details before deleting them from his phone.
As he went through them all at once, he felt an odd sense of familiarity toward the woman. Perhaps it was the strange punctuation or the stilted tone, but the messages sent a strange shiver down his spine.
Don’t be a fool; man up and get the job done.
So he loaded his trusty black carbine and set off to the address.
6262 Sanguis Street.
The home turned out to be a small rust-colored cottage, with vines of blue ivy running through it like veins. It was clear whoever lived there didn’t have much regard for appearances, which he could respect.
He stepped toward the front door and was surprised to find it cracked open.
Well, that makes my job easier. He pushed through the door, following the instructions given to him by his client to make his way toward the bedroom.
The inside of the house invoked that same tugging of familiarity at the corners of his mind. Warm spices and toasted saffron wafted through the room, smelling like a life he had left behind long ago.
Brushing these thoughts aside, he crept toward the door of the bedroom, which was already ajar.
From his angle, he could see a figure sitting up on the small bed, perfectly straight, their feet hanging over the frame.
He inhaled sharply.
So, perhaps this won’t be so simple after all.
He pounced, rushing into the dark room wielding his carbine, ready to strike.
And then the figure turned on a small flashlight, a pillar of yellow-tinted light illuminating the saccharine grin on her face.
“Mama?” He gasped, his mind reeling. He dropped the gun and rushed to his mother’s side.
Who would arrange to have my mother killed?
He had enemies, sure, but to send him after his own mother was a unique combination of poor planning and sheer stupidity.
“You came,” She rasped, her gnarled hands gently stroking his face. “I was beginning to worry you had forgotten.”
He froze.
“What do you mean, forgotten?”
She gave him a pitying smile.
“You really didn’t recognize me?”
His eyes widened. It can’t be.
Possibilities had been swirling through his head from the second she had revealed her face, but not this one, never this one.
“You-you sent the messages yourself?” He sputtered. She nodded, still smiling.
“Why?”
She sighed, settling back into the bed and pulling the burgundy covers over herself.
“You were always my favorite person in the world. And you kept me here for a frightfully long time, much longer than it was meant to be,” She wheezed a wretched laugh, the sound equal parts pitiful and horrifying. She cleared her throat and continued,
“So I found it fitting that the one I brought into this world, the one tethering me to this mortal domain, should be the one who takes me out of it.”
He inhaled sharply.
Memories were clawing at the corners of his head, trapped beasts begging to be released after decades of captivity.
His mother’s wrists, dripping with crimson beads.
Small hands clutching a soft white towel, shaking, trying desperately to mop the sea of red staining the white marble of the kitchen floor.
Despite his best efforts, the red seemed to rise higher every night, threatening to drown him.
“You want me to kill you?” His own voice brought him back to the present, startling him.
His mother nodded, and he fought back the tears threatening to escape from his eyes.
A later memory was resurfacing, a warning, of welts stinging on his back as bluish-purple bruises bloomed underneath, laughter as he struggled to hold back the tears he knew would only invite more pain.
No, Mama didn’t take kindly to weakness.
She gave him a hard look, perhaps recognizing the hesitance that betrayed her son’s eyes.
“This is my final wish. I have had too much time to think about this day. You will obey me.”
He bowed his head, and the memories dutifully returned to their cages.
“Yes, Mama.”
A few moments later, a shot rang through the clear night air, muffling the sobs of the man who had completed yet another successful hit.