Short Story: I'll Be Home for Dinner

         I’ve always considered myself a brave man, never afraid to walk alone at night, to pass dark alleys and watch misty eyes scrutinizing me from behind the corner. I’ve always held my head high and took pride in everything I’ve done.

         I’m like steel – rough, tough, soulless.

         I’m usually the bad guy in your movie, the one you hate, the one you despise. If we were to bet who’s dying tonight, I’d place my bets with you on my competitor and hope for him to win… hope for him to win the battle and for me to win the bet. But I’ve lost lots of money like this, and you’re about to do the same. Because this is not how the movie goes; not now, not ever. In the end, I’m always the one holding the gun, the one pulling the trigger. I’m the one to feel the heart stop beating and the body go cold. I’m the one digging a grave every night, and I’m the one to fill it.

         I told you, I’m the bad guy.

         Every night I go out with a piece f paper and a name on it. It could be your name, your wife’s name or your child’s; or it could be of somebody you’ve never met, and you’ll never know. It’s so very simple really.

         I read the name. I go out. I find the person, and then BAM!

         A gun. A bullet. A target.

         A victim and a killer.

         People.

         Alive breathing creatures fighting for another breath, fighting for their right… no, for the privilege to live.

         A battle with a notified end.

         It’s not fair; it never is.

         I know how the scene ends, and so do you; and so does he.

         He fights back. There’s no time for giving up. The clock is ticking.

TIC TOC TIC TOK TIK TOK TIK TOK TIK TOK TIK TOK TIK TOK TIK TOK

         Time’s up.

         A gun shot.

         The end.

         But the story doesn’t end here because there’s been a mistake. ‘People’ I said, but we’re with none left. One died, and one’s left, but can I be considered the same?

         Animals don’t kill their own kind. Not without a reason, with no motive.

         Money’s nothing; it means nothing; it equals nothing.

         So I killed for nothing? What kind of a person does that?

         No person does that.

         But I already told you - I’m a proud man. I don’t stoop, and I don’t apologize. I’m a good dog, and I do what I’m told to; I’m like a robot, like a machine, and I work as I’ve been programmed.

         But there’s a part of the story you didn’t hear, the part which’s been tearing me apart.

         I read the name. I go out… But no, it’s not true. It’s a lie! I don’t go out, not like that. Because I’m not an animal! Every night when I read that name on the paper, every night before I hit the streets, I look up in the eyes of my beautiful daughter, and I tell her, “I’ll be home for dinner, baby; I’ll be home soon.” I tell her that, and then I walk out the door, and I come for you.

         She’ll never know. She can never know.

         You know the rest of the story.

Gunpowder.

Blood.

                            Dirt.

                                      Shaking hands in the running water.

                                      Dusty clothes in the washing machine.

                                      No trace left.

                                      Not a clue.

For she’ll never know, and I’ll always be home for dinner.