It is 4 in the morning. The winter is settling in between the tiny cracks the earthquake left behind and I am sitting barefoot on the marble floor, cleaning out his gun.
I pause after each swipe, look up at his sleeping face, smile to myself and go back to the sliding feel of the washcloth against the metal.
I think of all the death there will be today. I think of what my part is going to be in it. The blood will be on my hands and will make its home there even before I touch the casualties. Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. I look up at him again. Is he really? No. It can’t be that easy.
I put in the chokes and screw them tight. Long range, he won’t have to get so close to the victim. He will only see the gaping bewilderment frozen on their faces once all that made them alive has been drained out.
I hope he doesn’t bring them home. Cooking hunted birds is not something I want on my conscience.