breath, a fucking blue streak, when I don’t see him at all. “Fucking hell.” I’m going to have to do this another fucking night. I can do that. It isn’t like I’m near my deadline to complete the contract I hold. But I’d been hoping to have this over and done with.
Then I see him, running like a rabbit across the street, down by the other corner. I pick up my pace, determined not to lose him again. My heart races. You’d think it wouldn’t be a big deal any longer after all the men—and women, for that matter; I don’t discriminate; I’ll kill anyone if the money is right—whose lives have lethally crossed my path. But every time, the excitement builds and I can feel my heart hammering in my chest.
My quarry yanks open the door to a building and rushes inside. Light spills from the huge windows out onto the sidewalk, making patterns on the pavement as well as on the falling snow.
I approach and stop just outside the squares of light. The room is decorated for the holidays with paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. There’s a Christmas tree with child-made decorations clustered toward the bottom. Obviously the kids decorated the tree as well. Little kids, by the looks of it.
“What the hell is this place?” I step back and look up for some sort of sign on the building. There is none.
Just as I figure I might as well go home for the night and finish my contract tomorrow, when my quarry is behaving normally, a bus pulls up in front of the building. The door opens and children stream off, talking, laughing, and squealing with delight as they file inside, their faces wide with smiles. The scruffy, often ill-fitting clothes provide another piece of the puzzle, as does the lettering on the side of the bus: Saints Mary and Martha Home for Children.
“Shit,” I swear as I watch the last of the kids file past, followed by caregivers and a nun with a kind expression, a black veil flowing from her head down her back.
“Children, let’s all gather around—”
Whatever else she says is cut off as the door closes. The bus pulls away, and once again I’m alone on the sidewalk. I think about going home, but my feet are locked to the concrete. Instantly I’m transported back to a similar Christmastime evening, years ago.
I remember walking into the common room at the home, Greggy holding my hand. He was a veteran, and I was so new to all of it and afraid of everything. As I’m looking inside the building, a little boy sits on the floor in a small pair of jeans and a red shirt that someone probably donated to the home. I remember wearing whatever clothes I was given because that’s all there was, and for a second, I imagine that I’m that child, sitting apart. I know how he feels: alone, maybe a little scared, spending a lot of time wishing things were different.
One of the other boys sits down next to him, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He has a Greggy, just like I did.
“Fucking hell,” I swear, blinking rapidly. I’m on a job, and I’m not supposed to let all this shit get to me any longer. I’m a professional, and my emotions have no place in my work. I really need to get the hell out of here so I can do my job and get paid. That’s what all this is about, after all. Not some trip down a twisting, turning memory lane that’s best left forgotten.
Laughter, cheers, and clapping reach my ears, and I figure I’ll stay where I am for a few more seconds, just to see what’s going to happen next.
Santa Claus arrives, walking out of the back room in a bright red suit, white hair that’s obviously a wig, and a fake beard. I instantly see through the disguise. The kids, however, are delighted, some jumping to their feet, unable to contain their joy. Hell, I know what that feels like, and I flex my hand slightly, instinctively reaching for Greggy’s hand. But of course there’s no one.
There hasn’t been anyone to hold my hand in a very long time.
Santa sits on a
Then I see him, running like a rabbit across the street, down by the other corner. I pick up my pace, determined not to lose him again. My heart races. You’d think it wouldn’t be a big deal any longer after all the men—and women, for that matter; I don’t discriminate; I’ll kill anyone if the money is right—whose lives have lethally crossed my path. But every time, the excitement builds and I can feel my heart hammering in my chest.
My quarry yanks open the door to a building and rushes inside. Light spills from the huge windows out onto the sidewalk, making patterns on the pavement as well as on the falling snow.
I approach and stop just outside the squares of light. The room is decorated for the holidays with paper snowflakes hanging from the ceiling. There’s a Christmas tree with child-made decorations clustered toward the bottom. Obviously the kids decorated the tree as well. Little kids, by the looks of it.
“What the hell is this place?” I step back and look up for some sort of sign on the building. There is none.
Just as I figure I might as well go home for the night and finish my contract tomorrow, when my quarry is behaving normally, a bus pulls up in front of the building. The door opens and children stream off, talking, laughing, and squealing with delight as they file inside, their faces wide with smiles. The scruffy, often ill-fitting clothes provide another piece of the puzzle, as does the lettering on the side of the bus: Saints Mary and Martha Home for Children.
“Shit,” I swear as I watch the last of the kids file past, followed by caregivers and a nun with a kind expression, a black veil flowing from her head down her back.
“Children, let’s all gather around—”
Whatever else she says is cut off as the door closes. The bus pulls away, and once again I’m alone on the sidewalk. I think about going home, but my feet are locked to the concrete. Instantly I’m transported back to a similar Christmastime evening, years ago.
I remember walking into the common room at the home, Greggy holding my hand. He was a veteran, and I was so new to all of it and afraid of everything. As I’m looking inside the building, a little boy sits on the floor in a small pair of jeans and a red shirt that someone probably donated to the home. I remember wearing whatever clothes I was given because that’s all there was, and for a second, I imagine that I’m that child, sitting apart. I know how he feels: alone, maybe a little scared, spending a lot of time wishing things were different.
One of the other boys sits down next to him, and I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding. He has a Greggy, just like I did.
“Fucking hell,” I swear, blinking rapidly. I’m on a job, and I’m not supposed to let all this shit get to me any longer. I’m a professional, and my emotions have no place in my work. I really need to get the hell out of here so I can do my job and get paid. That’s what all this is about, after all. Not some trip down a twisting, turning memory lane that’s best left forgotten.
Laughter, cheers, and clapping reach my ears, and I figure I’ll stay where I am for a few more seconds, just to see what’s going to happen next.
Santa Claus arrives, walking out of the back room in a bright red suit, white hair that’s obviously a wig, and a fake beard. I instantly see through the disguise. The kids, however, are delighted, some jumping to their feet, unable to contain their joy. Hell, I know what that feels like, and I flex my hand slightly, instinctively reaching for Greggy’s hand. But of course there’s no one.
There hasn’t been anyone to hold my hand in a very long time.
Santa sits on a
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