Be forewarned, prose can be lighthearted...or dark and graphic in nature as inspiration dictates. No offense is meant to be forced upon you, so if you're of softer sensibilities, it's best not to tRead lightly...
~ The Outlaw Muse
She approached the bed and slowly sat as she stared at him. Her case rested on the floor beside the chair. Inside, two polished Brownings and a serrated blade that had quickly become her weapon of choice.
To be just, the manner of death was designed to be an equal reflection of the severity of the crimes and the pain they had caused. Justice was important and personal. Poised atop a building and firing expertly aimed shots from a distance was effective, efficient and most often the necessary manner of executing a target. It also lacked the personal connection she found only when puncturing the lung from behind or sawing through the throat.
Her career was in its early stages. She didn’t know how long she would feel the need to see the eyes blacken as life drained to nothing. She needed immediate proof that their crimes had come to an end.
This time she’d known to expect an aged man but his level of frailty surprised her. For several long minutes she watched his chest slowly rise and fall. The room was silent except for the sounds of his shallow, wheezing breaths.
Time had aged his body, weakened his vision, and made him vulnerable. Old, sickly, and guilty, this man was not long for the world.
She finally rose from the chair then opened her case on the bedside table. The torturous silence could be ended quickly with one of the weapons. Instead, she removed the vial and prepared the injection.
His head turned slightly to look at her as the needle pierced his skin. He glanced up at her with eyes fogged by partial blindness. Would he recognize her as his nurse, or the third wife who cared for him in his final years and falsely believed she knew all of the truths of his past? Or would he see her for who she really was?
As he groaned quietly and turned his gaze to stare at the ceiling, she sat down again to wait.
She blinked. A single tear fell over the curve of her cheek; evidence of her humanity as she watched him suffer through physical pains and the knowledge of his own inevitable death. She could only hope that somewhere in his final thoughts were feelings of true regret.
In her there was no regret. Only the leniency in the method she felt compelled to use would haunt her. His power to influence her actions angered and saddened her.
She’d been prepared to execute him viciously. In the end, he met his death, but far less painfully than what she felt he deserved. She’d offered him one final act of compassion.