Work Text:
“You ever killed a man before?”
A cigarette burned low in Mick’s mouth, the flame growing ever closer to his lips, and he nodded. He nodded, despite knowing that he had not — he had killed many wild animals, rabbits, deer, goats, but never a man. Fright begun to rise up inside him, guilt and regret and shame all overwhelming him, only growing stronger when he realised that it must be showing in his mannerisms. He steeled his face and turned back to the man.
“Tell me about him.”
—
It was hot.
Not just usual heat, but blistering sun that beat down on the crown of his hair and scorched his head even with the armour of a hat. The hat, which ultimately seemed futile to wear due to the lack of protection against the blazing itch of a sunburned scalp. In the distance, the cloudless sky wavered as if the world had been draped with the warping static of an analogue television. The victim would leave his car soon. Not victim, no, this was Mick’s job, this was necessary. 4:00 in the afternoon was the time that the client had told him, his watch read 3:48. Each minute that the hands moved forward on made Mick doubt and doubt, the event only getting closer. He lay vulnerable on his stomach in the tall grass, hidden like a prey animal; stared into his scope, scanning the area and looking for any kind of witness that might be trouble to him. Would he have to kill them too? The thought of it made him shudder, it was unnecessary for several people to die just for one hit. Besides, this was possible. He had analysed the entire area precisely whilst waiting long, dragging hours for the man to arrive, the layout solidified in his head: the car should park at the end of a dirt path that led to a narrow grove of eucalyptus bushes if you followed it backwards. Ruminating on the times he would only hunt animals, he remembered proclaiming himself a professional at what he did.
Professionals had standards, didn’t they?
Time ticked on and at 4:06 the car door finally creaked open, revealing the man to the world. Middle-aged. Thin. The same haircut Mick recalled everyone in his old school class having. He wasn’t unique at all, Mick had seen many people that looked exactly like him in the past, it would probably be suitable to call him generic. Mick wondered what he had done that warranted death; he did not look evil, just as average as ever. There was no fancy car, nothing covering his face, no expensive clothes or jewellery. He looked like the kind of man who had a routine, ate the same thing for breakfast every day, had a favourite shirt, mug, song, a sense of humour. Just like the rest of us. Maybe he only had a small family, or not many friends, maybe this was a good thing. Maybe he meant nothing to most people and would only be missed by those closest to him.
Maybe thinking about that only made it worse.
His drifting mind was soon switched off and once again he stared down his scope. The man trudged sluggishly to the house, this would be easy enough. Mick aligned the scope with the target’s head, his sight trained precisely, and pulled the trigger, a chain reaction igniting. For a moment, the resonant sound of the round leaving the rifle was all he could hear, and the silence that followed was almost as deafening as the gunshot.
He made sure to adjust for distance, gravity, wind speed, and the bullet flew through the sky before entering the man’s cranium. It was as though his eyes were glued to the scope, watching as the man who had once been living, breathing just like him became a grisly checked box on a contract.
He couldn’t move his eyes from the sickening sight, brain matter and skull fragments and blood all erupting from the side of the corpse’s head. Nothing would move, it felt like he had completely lost control of his body — his finger paralysed on the trigger pulled back as if frozen in time, and he waited longingly for nothingness to sweep through the world and take him with it.
He crumpled into the ground, now just a sack of meat, the way he fell not natural, not human, not living.
—
Mick lay in bed, a sheen of sweat covering his body. His clock read some time between half past three and four in the morning, and he had not slept a wink. The man was in his head when his eyes slipped shut in an attempt to escape the reality he was in, yet no matter what, the gruesome scene of the death he had caused with his own hands was ever present in his mind. He continued to think about the man himself — now that his ears were no longer ringing from the vociferous sound of gunfire, he was certain the man had a voice. A voice that he used to tell his family about his day once he had come home from work. A voice that he used to call his mother on a Saturday and check in on her health. A voice that he used to wish his wife “Goodnight, I love you” every evening before she went to bed.
Another hour passed by and eventually he gave up trying to sleep, knowing it just wouldn’t be a possibility, at least not tonight. He flicked the switch outside the bathroom to turn on the light and glared at his own reflection in the mirror; in the end he settled on the idea to just turn the lights back off. After fumbling with the tap for a while, he finally felt cold water rushing over his hands, so he scrubbed. He scrubbed, and scrubbed, and scrubbed. Nothing had washed off, there was nothing to wash off.
His hands were clean, despite how dirty they felt.
Dawn was breaking, so he got up, not even realising he had sunk to the floor in the first place. Almost like the man he had killed. Flicking the bathroom light back on, he pushed himself up, using the wall as a guide to hold up his dead legs. Dead. The word was all too familiar on Mick’s tongue. All he wanted was to go back to his bed and sleep until he rotted away, until he could be forgotten and left behind.
Rotten.
Forgotten.
Left behind.
Everything he did reminded him of the poor, poor man. Eventually, he got into the shower, turning the heat up so sharply that it scalded his shoulders and made him lightheaded. At least it would wake him up.
He left his house in the late morning, hoping to get home before the worst of the outback sun would sear the soil he stepped on. Every person he walked past looked like the man he had killed, and some part inside of Mick wished that the man had unique qualities, or a defining feature that set him apart from the rest of the world. Something, anything that stopped the constant reminder of what he had done. As an attempt to soothe his nerves, he managed to stumble into the town centre and entered a café, hoping to find some comfort in a cup of hot coffee.
He approached the counter slowly, struggling to move efficiently with his complete lack of sleep, and barked out his order. God, he hadn’t meant to sound so rude. All the things he did just reinforced the thoughts in his head that he was a heartless person; he truly did not care about anyone but himself. Once the barista had brought his coffee out (an americano with no sugar or milk — it would probably be suitable to call it generic, as average as ever) Mick nodded and smiled, but it came out more like a grimace. It was surprisingly empty inside, which was simultaneously comforting and unsettling; it was almost as if the locals were avoiding him intentionally.
Alone, he sat at a table with two seats and just stared. Stared into space, at the other empty seat, into his coffee. The deep brown colour unmistakably resembled blood, the blood that continued to gush out of the man even after Mick was certain that he was dead. Mick became suddenly hyperaware of his surroundings and himself, feeling panic set in once more. This was routine now. He knew he was anxious, but he hadn’t realised quite how much his hands were shaking until he picked up his coffee and took a sip, hoping that anything would shock him out of the grasp that fear had on him. The warm, heavy liquid did nothing to settle the unbearable nausea gnawing at his stomach and he accepted the acrid taste of defeat rising in the back of his throat.
A brisk walk to the bathroom and he would be fine, he thought. He had barely made it to the bathroom before his stomach begun to empty itself, twisting as if someone was walking all over him, their big rubber boots crushing him more with every step. Each shuddering breath of the panic attack gave way to more meek retching. He hadn’t eaten anything — nothing came up but bile and nerves and the small quantity of coffee he had drunk. After a few long minutes of dry heaving painfully and to no avail, he forced himself upright. The mirror caught his eyes and he glared at his own reflection again, this time not looking away. Mick wasn’t sure how he had lived this long, the frailty of his body evident just by the deep set eye bags in his face and the visible tremors that shook his entire being. He wanted to throw up again, a heavy feeling of shame for everything he had done weighing down on him. Again he scrubbed and scrubbed his hands. He looked down.
His hands were clean, despite how dirty they felt.
His coffee was still on the table when he left the bathroom, cool enough to drink now, and in one swallow it was gone. The way Mick’s stomach had an intention to reject everything he consumed felt threatening; he knew he had to go home. On his way out he put a couple of banknotes on the counter, hoping that would pay for what he owed. The journey home was not long at all, just over five minutes on foot, Mick was sure he could last that long. Five minutes became fifteen with the speed Mick was walking at, but he ultimately made it there in one piece, lighting a cigarette and sitting on the porch. With one long drag of the cigarette, his stomach turned over again and he put it out on his other hand, so delirious that he didn’t even register the pain until he stood up and the entire world reeled around him, white-hot hurt flashing over his body. He staggered and gripped the door frame, steadying himself before exhaustion became too deep-set in his bones. The coffee had done nothing to reanimate his frame. Once the bout of dizziness became bearable, tremored legs carried him haphazardly back to his spot on the bathroom floor, where he curled up and focused on the low hum of the extractor fan spinning tauntingly above him.
And he cried.
He wasn’t sure why he cried, but he was thankful that this had happened while he was alone — how embarrassing to show human emotions and react like a real person. He cried big heaving sobs that made his shoulders shake, the awful sound of his guttural howling bouncing off the walls and echoing in the small square room. His body ached from carrying the all the thoughts and fears weighing so heavily on his mind. Tears quickly turned into rapid, gasping breaths and Mick would have rolled his eyes if he was lucid enough. Alarm bells had been set off all over his body and he was rather suddenly overtaken with shock eating at his stomach, an overwhelming urge to vomit becoming the only clear thing in his mind. An urge that was fulfilled not two minutes later. An insubstantial amount of coffee made its way up his throat, burning like hot lava dripping from the crater of a volcano.
He was still crying.
Forcing himself to get up off the floor, his legs wobbling, he held onto the side of the sink like a lifeline to steady himself. His eyes once again met the eyes of the man in the mirror. That man was visibly sick, his eyes puffy and bloodshot, his face pale with scarlet blossoming over his cheeks as if he had gone up in flames. He scrubbed his hands more, scrubbed and scrubbed. Looking down at the basin to avoid staring at his own reflection, he took note of the fact that his hands were already clean. Why would they be any different?
Extreme fatigue was still present in his body, and he chose to ignore the unfinished task of finding the client to notify him of the completion. The only thing in his mind was tiredness and the few steps he took from the bathroom to his bed felt like the final traces of life force being sapped out of him. The clock read 5pm. Time meant nothing to him in this state, his only constant thought being sleep. He desperately downed the last of the water on his bedside table, shuddering at its lukewarm temperature as it made its way down his throat. As soon as his head hit the pillow he was out cold, not even bothering to remove the sweat-sodden clothes from earlier in the day.
—
A new contract now, a new client, a new life for him to take without caring for the consequences. Consequences, he thought, consequences that he could leave behind him and discard as soon as the contract was completed. Approaching the man slowly, he began to feel apprehensive about the kill — but he was a professional, that he was certain of, there was no reason for this to feel so unfamiliar to him. Surely he had been through it enough times for it to become internalised, a part of the routine he rehearsed over every day, but he still couldn’t get over the agitated feeling caught up in his mind. Each step he took just amplified the anxious feeling that had made itself home low in his stomach and wracked his frame with troubled shivers and twitches. Finally making eye contact with his newest customer, he feigned confidence and tried to pretend his quivering breaths didn’t ache in his lungs with every inhale he took.
“Lives on Adelaide Street, the red house on the left. He leaves his house around 10:15am every day for a smoke. Some days he spends more time outside than others, pay attention. Don’t miss your chance.” Mick nodded compliantly, despite his growing doubts.
The client gestured. “He’s about this tall and quite thin, his hair is greying at the sides, always wears glasses.” He must have taken account of Mick’s hesitant facial expression.
“You sure you can do this, kid?”
Mick tried to swallow, but his mouth was so dry that it felt Herculean to even attempt it. “His name?” he managed to croak out.
“Jonathan Mundy, why, you know him?”
—
With a sudden jolt, his eyes snapped open and he gasped greedily for uncomfortably warm air that felt suffocating in the cramped room that he slept inside. Heartbeats fought hopelessly against the panic that snaked and circled his windpipe, choking him as if a python had curled its sleek, smooth body many times around his throat and begun to constrict. A glance at the clock ticking mockingly above his bed confirmed his suspicions; he had slept far too long and the hands pointed scornfully at the early hours of the morning. Attempting to sleep again felt unavailing with the rapid pounding in his chest and the way his thin, red button-up shirt stuck to his skin from the cold sweat soaking his lanky body from head to toe. Taking notice of the dim light from the sun that was being smothered by the shutters of his bedroom window allowed him to recognise that dawn was breaking, it always came early in the morning during the torrid heat of Australian summertime. Yet, it was only a matter of time until the oppressive panic once more became the only thing that existed to him, his head reeling with anxiety. He was dying, he thought, certainly, he was dying. The corners of his vision darkened and the weight of air in his lungs slowly became too heavy to exhale.
It was just a dream.
He repeated that to himself over and over in his mind, dragging each word out as if that would help it stick. As vulnerable as he felt, he was safe — the familiarity of his bed was a warm comfort, despite the fact that he was much too tall to lie completely flat on the compact mattress. Curling his legs up to meet his chest, he hugged his knees tightly and willed the fear to leave him, silently hoping that whatever newfound problem with his nerves would piss off along with it. After a prolonged period of just sitting there rocking on the spot, Mick managed to muster up the strength to get out of bed and pangs of hunger hit him like serrated knives to the stomach. In that moment it finally clicked with him that he had not eaten in about two days, the exact timings being unclear due to the events that took place as of late being the only things plaguing his thoughts. It didn’t really matter either, he thought to himself, since whatever he had eaten hadn’t stayed in his stomach anyway. He tethered himself to the wall and hugged it tightly in an effort to walk to the kitchen, though it turned out more like a stumble, sickness the only clear thing in his clouded mind.
Frankly, the place was a mess: kettle still out on the stove, unboiled; half-empty glasses and coffee mugs littering the countertops; old tin cans of long-life food stacked up to save space in the cramped little cabin. Taking little notice of the clutter other than a mental note to clean the room up a little later on, he reached for the first can his eyes set themselves on, some generic, as average as ever, chicken soup. Memories of childhood came pricked his eyes, the times he had stayed home sick and his mother’s tender care, the feeling of her cool hand on his forehead whilst he rested under the comfort of a thin blanket. He was alone now. The thought of calling his mother crossed his mind, but left as quickly as it entered, like a bullet through the brain. She couldn’t see him in a state like this, he struggled to even imagine her reaction to his situation, her “poor Mickey”, the same name she had called him on those days away from school. Besides, he knew his parents would not care for his work choice, to say the least. Even in childhood when his father had taken him out hunting, to shoot at rabbits, deer, goats, his ma had seemed to have a borderline revulsion for the state Mick and his father would return home in, caked in mud and blood and sand and all things grime.
The clicking of the stove dragged his feeble mind back to reality and he poured the soup into a saucer, stirring it idly with a wooden spoon that had become chipped and warped with use. Moving almost robotically, mindlessly, he heated the soup and made a bowl, painstakingly swallowing spoonfuls as his mind drifted back to his childhood. He had always isolated himself, shunned by his peers due to some sort of inherent difference that he had never understood. No wonder he was alone now; his only company could be found in himself.
Despite all the distractions he had attempted to give himself, the vision of the dream stayed prominent in his mind. He knew it wouldn’t happen, but the question of “what if it did?” lingered in the air like grey clouds before a thunderstorm. He couldn’t help but imagine vivid visions of him staring at his father’s face through the scope, his brains that once contained sweet memories of childhood splattered over the sand, the piercing shriek of his mother upon witnessing the horrific scene, the call he would receive from her thinking he didn’t know what had happened but deep down being unable to contain the guilt that weighed heavy on his shoulders. The blood that stained his hands.
Again, he scrubbed them raw. The only blood on his hands was his own, seeping out from broken capillaries where he had forced layers of skin to peel off, exposing pure, untouched flesh underneath. Scabs from the cigarette burn (burns?) he had given himself in the delirious haze of exhaustion previously flaked off, revealing more bare flesh. Warm water from the tap felt scorching to the parts of his hands where the thick armour of skin was missing. Bandages, that was what he needed; the moment his hands were clean he rummaged through the cupboard underneath the sink and poorly managed to cover his pitiful wounds. When the gauze concealed his shame, he drifted back off into a dreamless sleep.
—
Work had become normalised by now. He was known for his “professional standards”, his politeness, his efficiency, his thought-out plans to kill. This was what had scored him the job at Mann Co. some years back. He couldn’t remember how many. The days had blurred into one, kill after kill desensitising him completely to any kind of distress he may have experienced beforehand. Routine was important — the same every day — get up, wash your hands, cover them up with the poor excuses for gloves you were given, shoot, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, rest, wake up, kill, kill, kill.
This unfortunate excuse for a morning in November meant that his body took even longer than usual to wake up fully, the chills of late autumn in New Mexico set deep in his bones. He had meant to get the heater in his van fixed by someone, his coworker maybe, but asking for help meant showing your weakness. He wasn’t a man of weakness. He was a professional. An assassin. Slowly waking to the melancholy sound of a mourning dove’s wails, he begun to think about his routine; the things that came next, never in the moment. This was how he had coped for so long. Moving almost robotically, mindlessly, he pulled the sheets down off his body and got out of bed, approaching the lousy sink in his camper. Water exited the faucet weakly, a problem with the pressure, another thing that needed fixing. Another thing to put off until it was unbearable. Despite the difficulties due to the tap’s thin stream, he scrubbed his hands vigorously, the skin now cracked and dry from doing this every day for God knows how long. Every time he looked down at his hands, they were clean. Of course they were.
Living in the van gave him some kind of solitude, a similar loneliness to the way he had felt when he stayed in that small house back on the outskirts of Adelaide, far enough from his parents for them to be unable to constantly intrude on him but not far enough for them to be too far to never see again. He didn’t have to live this way and he knew that. There was a room for him back at the base, a mile or so out from where his van was parked. The plaque on the front of that room’s door read “Sniper”.