Monday, January 5, 2009


Afterwards, when I’d spoken to the brother and taken his body to a National Park, I buried him. I took pictures of the grave, as per my contract, and then I sat down on some mulchy earth and reflected on my thoughts. Whenever I finished a contract, whenever the blood had stopped and run cold, I would try to convince myself this would be the last time. But then I would see myself in a grey shadowless office, or in an unemployment queue, and I would see the corner I had painted myself into. I still had not found the dead man from the photograph, the brother of the man I had just killed. My target had not known a thing. This I had not anticipated. But I had to admit it was always a possibility.

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