This short story was for the writing prompt. ‘Life is like a box of crayons …’
I’m pleased to re-share it for Fandango’s Flashback Friday
‘Life is like a box of crayons’ I was sure I’d heard that uttered differently before. What did it matter if green was the colour of life and blue was freedom? Bah, yellow was supposed to mean happiness – never for me. Red was mine, blood, fire and love.
I’d just slipped into a house on Rampart Street. Rich snobs lived here, one of them had allowed his money to get him trouble. I wasn’t here for him; I was here to take from him. I stole into the kitchen, helped myself to a glass of orange juice – might as well wet the old whistle before the show begins, huh?
Now, where was he? I crept into the large lounge. It was the sound of groaning bed springs which ratted him out. I’d caught him with his pants down – an easy target.
Slipping upstairs, I followed the sounds of lovemaking passed six bedrooms, two bathrooms and a cinema screen. Oh, the life of a rich man – made me want to vomit.
Then I was at the master bedroom door. His wife was surrendering to her hubby in there, alright. I raised my hand to knock and felt a tug on the hem of my jacket. A little blonde girl in her nightdress, maybe seven if she’s a day.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you here to kill daddy?” she asked all innocent-like.
“What’s your name?” I asked my voice a croaky whisper – Too much rum does that too you.
“I’m Faith, and I hope you won’t kill daddy.”
I scooped her from the floor into my arms. She weighed nothing, compared to the dead-weight I was used to lugging around. I carried her back to her bedroom – I’d passed it on the way along the hall. “I’m sorry, Faith. People must pay for their crime.” I said as I put her on her pony bedspread.
I saw tears form in her eyes. “Stay here.”
She nodded tearfully.
I slipped out of the girl’s room, back to the master bedroom. Walking straight in I discovered the bed in disarray. Nobody was there. The air moved, I ducked beneath a murderous candlestick. Catching, Fairbank, I hurled him over the bed into the radiator the other side. There was his wife, draped only in the sheet and cowering in the corner.
“The hanky-panky’s over. The Boss wants the murder games to begin.” I hauled Fairbanks to his feet and bounced him off the wardrobe.
“No! Please, I need more time,” he whimpered like a baby as he sagged to the carpet.
“They all say that, Fairbank.” I rounded on his wife, Olive, and froze. It was then I saw Faith’s tearful eyes as she pleaded for me to not kill her daddy – reverberating in my mind. “Both of you; come with me,” I ordered.
I marched them into the girl’s bedroom. She was sat on the bed, with a box of crayons in her hand, still in tears.
“Don’t touch her!” Olive’s piercing scream hurt my ears.
“Don’t scream again.” I urged as I took Faith into my arms. “This little girl needs and deserves her parents. Yet I’m supposed to kill your wife, Fairbank.”
“No, please! Just leave us … Plea —”
“Shut-up, Fairbank!” I glared at him. “I can’t take a girl’s parents away. Get a million to the Boss by eight-AM. If you fail and he finds you both still alive; he’ll have you both killed. Understand.” I took a roll of banknotes from my pocket, stashed it in the crayons box and gave it to Faith. It was my assassination contract fee – I didn’t want a penny of it now. “Understand, Fairbank.”
“Yes, I understand,” he managed shakily.
“Good.” With that I vanished into the night, only to reappear here at the bar to drink my last shot of rum. With my mission failed, I’d be first on the new assassin’s list.
Have a great day!