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The Kill

The knife protrudes from his chest.
His heart pierced by cold steel.
The man falls to his knees.
Takes a final breath,
and falls over.

Blood covers my sweaty hands.
Adrenaline courses through my veins.
I do not feel guilt,
nor shame.
Instead I am awash in relief.
The deed is done and I feel anew.

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I dial him up,
An unlisted number, of course
But easy enough to find
When you know where to look.
He speaks low, and slow,
I tell him what he needs to know,
No more. Not too much.
He books me in. Half-four.
Simple stuff - a time, a place, the door,
The colour, the number, the floor outside.
Then the target, to mark it,
Rough age, hair colour?
Height, weight, creed?

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