The Smoking Gun

The clock strikes twelve the moment he steps inside the house. Trying not to make a sound, he gently shuts the door behind him. The room turns black as soon as he hears the click of the lock engaging. His conscience slowly leaving him with every step he takes further inside the room. The silhouette of the gun he holds reflects against the rows of mirrors that lie along the long dark hallway.

Finally, as the never-ending hallway comes to an end, he sees the door to the bedroom and slowly turns the knob until he can cautiously open the door to see his victim lying asleep in his bed. Watching as the man’s chest slowly rises up and down until he has to avert his eyes down to his gun.

The moment the trigger releases, shooting out a tiny bullet of death, the gut-wrenching sound fills the quiet of the room like water being poured into a glass. He tucks the smoking gun in his coat pocket as he walks out of the room with as much of an emotionless expression as the man lying dead in his bed.