Blood On Your Hands

My eyes were glued to the tv screen. I was watching a movie I found in my last victim’s house, a Hollywood blockbuster- Wanted with Angelina Jolie starring it. I had to say the beginning seemed interesting, but when things got to curving bullets, I got a little too skeptical. I wanted to know how the hell did they evade laws of physic, making bullets go around an object not through it. Yes, I knew it’s only a fictional movie. I turned the tv off after I saw how a single bullet killed ten people. Really?

The remote landed on the coffee table with a thud. My apartment companion left his room, adjusting a black fedora on his shaggy head. I leaned deeper in the brownish couch, placing my arms behind my head and crossing my black leather covered legs.

“I’m off,” His low voice notified, “You’ll be home in the evening?” His chocolate brown eyes ran over my body. He had stopped with his hand on the door knob. I jerked my shoulders in a shrug.

“You want me out?” I arched my eyebrow, looking at him with great amusement.

“Would be nice.” It would have been nice if he actually thought with his brain not with his dick. My amusement disappeared and I turned my head away.

“Take out the trash,” I said as I reached for the newspaper. A sound of closing door made me jerk my head towards the entrance. Once again he had ignored me. There were numerous times when I wanted to put a bullet in his head, so the wind could bring some dust of intellect inside it, even if it meant he would die afterwards. Our so called relationship was an ordinary one. The one roommates had- suppressed hate for each other, but I needed him and he believed it was advantageous living with me, when he was almost free of paying the rent. Almost. What I asked from him was to fill the fridge, take the trash out and most importantly be around. And I’ll be damned if he did any of those things.

It was a small effort put into what I gave him in return- an apartment of two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a living room connected to a kitchen, but of course, I came with the apartment.
He was looking for an apartment to rent at the exact same time when I put out advertisement for subletting a room for a very small price. I didn’t know anything about him except that he was called Brian, but his friends used to call him Synyster Gates. I didn’t know how he earned his money and, frankly, it didn’t concern me. He was here just because I needed an alibi, but he couldn’t even ensure me with one.

Why did I keep him around? Because he was pleasure to the eye. I had to admit it. That body of his sometimes left me wondering, but that was it. He was here because I needed to do my job. Nothing less, nothing more.

I sighed seeing my phone vibrate. It made everything on the table quake; the remote was about to fall off and threatened to take the plant along it. It was some sort of flowery type, one I had picked up from my sister’s when she moved away from Huntington Beach. There was something really wrong with my phone; I strongly believed it was the cause of every earthquake USA went through.
“Yeah,” I answered, nibbling on the green leaf, leaving some nail marks in it.

“Boss needs you for a job in Long Beach.” Naïve me, and I thought people called me to say ‘hello’.

“What kind of a job?” I stood up, going inside my bedroom.

“The usual. Quiet, clean and untraceable.”

Oh, I guess I have to tell you little something about me. I’m a killer by call. Now, let’s not get too dramatic, I know taking someone’s life is against the law and immoral, but they pay a shit load of money. And yes, money is the only thing I crave for. No love, no sex, just money. That’s me, the psychotic bitch in 5B who appears to be the cleaner of Orange County.

I had heard the lie about money not making people happy and all, but let’s be real, what’s better- to drive in a bus or own a Mercedes?

I think I’m just like everybody else, I have a job, I get my salary, the only difference- people pay with their blood for what I wear, for what I eat and for what I drive.

And all those people who are willing to help me, by trying to find out what is my backstory and past, I can say honestly, I had an amazing childhood. No, none of my folks is a serial killer or a godfather of some Italian mafia, although they owned a few guns. I guess that was what caught my attention when I was little. I won’t be humble, I’m darn great at what I do and I’m not willing to stop, and no I don’t feel any regret when I see the life go out of one’s body.

And now, to make myself more human in your eyes, I don’t kill innocent people, usually they all are tangled up in some sort of love triangle for crime. I have some rules towards myself to keep me on the right side of the track, well… on the righter side. First of all, no men in my life, why? Now imagine how would it be when he wakes up in your room, seeing a gun on your nightstand and you reaching out for him with bloody hands, pretty, aye? Second, never kill children, although I don’t prefer kids, I don’t kill them; third, start my day with a glass of water, always; fourth, never agree to close encounter in crowded places, no one wants to end up in jail; fifth, most importantly, never give out your name.

I guess I have to break the fifth rule, what would a story be without me introducing myself? I’m Elle Morrison, your worst nightmare.

Notes

So I figured to give this story a shot here. This one of my absolute favorites and is pre-written. I'm not gonna change anything that I've already written, just post it here. See if you guys like it. ^^