SHELL

By Brandon Hong

Written 11/07/06

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“Your eyes must do some raining, if you’re ever gonna grow.”

- Conor Oberst

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Ask. Draw. Chamber. Fire. Clean. Leave. So simple!

“Make this as painless as possible.”

He woke up from his mental trance and checked for his handgun. Removing the clip, he saw the bullet untouched and smooth. Yet as puny and harmless as it looked, he knew that he now wielded the power to take a life prematurely. Abruptly. Instantly. Painfully…

“Do you understand?”

Stay on track! He pocketed the gun and exited the ’95 Camry, looking at the environment. Hot and dry…The night covered him…he only hoped that it would cover his fear as well. The sliding doors of the apartment building opened releasing a cool air in contrast tot eh dry and warm nights of Beirut.

Just as they said, an elevator and another man waited in front of him. The man was an American decked with aviator sunglasses and a trench coat, a cocky grin accompanying his appearance. As part of the plan, he walked right by the American only to brush by his hand to pick up the silencer. The thing was black…cold and smooth. He had no time to ponder over his senses. Stepping into the elevator, he noticed that he was alone. Good.

His confidence built up as he screwed on the silencer. The sound of metal smoothly rotating against another metal was a pleasant, yet crude sound, unique, yet a premonition of death. The power felt from holding the instrument of his work was incredible. With a large ringing of a bell, the doors opened again, releasing a musty yet pleasant smell from the hallway. He was confident. He was indestructible! He was –

The target was right in front of him.

He was young and full of youth. Twenty something? He was in jogging attire, not exactly the man the Group had briefed him on. The boy was getting on. What the hell was he supposed to do???

Good God! He was so young! How could he rob a kid of life? He had been trained years to take the life of a youth? This was not the dangerous revolutionary he was taught of! How could it be!
He began to panic…

“Hellish weather isn’t it”

He awoke once more from his trance, his hand sweating from grasping the pistol butt so hard.

“Quite,” he quickly improvised with a convincing yet completely fake smile. “Is it always this bad?”

“Yeah, always…the room is always smelling like a corpse too…its like I left some kinda’ body in the closet.”

An exchange of laughter…one fake and empty.

He had to decide.

(Quit stalling!)

The decision had to be made…

(Hurry!)

But he’s so young!

(NOW!)

Now.

Thwack.

The smoke wisped from the pistol, the aroma of gunpowder couldn’t overtake the smell of spilt blood at the hands of an executioner…a murderer.

The boy stumbled backwards, grasping the wall with the towel in his hand, in vain.

“Once more soldier, you’re almost done,” the earpiece said.
(SHUT UP!)

Thwack.
Thwack.

The boy was on knees now, grasping his chest. The blood had desecrated the aura of peace in that elevator that had existed…silently, but surely. Obviously shocked, unable to speak, the boy, for one reason or another, began trying to clean the floor with his towel.

(he’s trying to do my job)

(what are you saying?!?! get a grip!)

He simply collapsed in his own blood.

The man, hands trembling, picked up two shells. One, two…where the hell was the third? He fumbled frantically in the pool (lake?) of blood on the ground for a missing shell.

(WHERE IS IT?????)
No….no! He had already committed the sin. He couldn’t be compromised. He couldn’t botch the mission at this point!

He noticed that the boy was clutching something.

Prying the dead, yet warm hands, he found his missing shell.

The door opened and he ran out, into the real world. The American still stood there with that same cocky grin. Peering into the elevator, the American laughed.

“Good job, buddy.”

Good job? He just killed a kid! Shot three times to death without the decency to relay his death to his family and friends, and the murderer receives praise? He kept walking.

Climbing into the car, the weather was still dry and uncomfortably warm.

(like a corpse)

He sobbed.

The tears streamed down the now aged face, mixing with his blood crusted hands. Wiping his tears, he smeared streaks of blood on his cheeks, like the warriors of old.

“You did fine soldier,” said a voice in the back. “You did a great service for your country. Now wipe those tears, you damn(ed?) baby.”

He still cried and sobbed, the streaks of blood washing away. What had he done??? The tears continued to flow…

“Grow up, soldier.”

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NOTES (My rambling and perhaps irrelevant response)

In retrospect, I love this story. For one it is the most quickly paced I have ever written anything and secondly, it is absolutely naive. Perhaps for some the whole concept of political assassination and Macbethian "blood of guilt" themes don't seem to naive, but I am very critical of my own work, and that's just what I'm getting out of this.