Chopin

This is my first foray into Flash Fiction. I usually like to write long short stories, but I was fiddling around with this and thought, “What the heck.” I hope you enjoy it.

Chopin

By Robert C Price

           The night is still. The air chokes with tension. My time is coming. She walks in front of the window naked and unaware of her last night on earth.

It’s funny how vapid people become in their everyday lives, going from work and home, not knowing if this will be their last day to live in complacency. That’s what’s wrong with society. They’re so self-absorbed with frivolity that they blindly traipse through life as if they are immortal.

I embrace my mortality. I live as I work—carefully planned and deliberate. My job is to terminate the loose end and rendezvous at the checkpoint. Those are my orders and like a good little soldier, who’s paid handsomely, I follow them. No questions asked.

I watch from the shadows in the forest. Site lined in my scope, distance calculated and checking wind speed. My target has the form of a dancer; fluid in the lines of her arms, legs and neck being the starting point of gracefulness. With her pale complexion gleaming like fine porcelain, it was in stark contrast to her raven locks that were still damp from her shower.

Judging by the way she prance around her house naked, I assume predilections of exhibitionism is a norm and not an anomaly. Her type is like the rest of the population. Those who hide behind improvised masks not knowing when the disguise will melt away and show their true selves. The people I see everyday who contract my services. They don’t hide their faces. They just hide in the shadows.

I have no problem with how they conduct themselves since I’m no better than them. I welcome the transparency. Few people do.

I observe her movements from bathroom to kitchen, snacking on cottage cheese and Melba toast.  Before heading to her bedroom to complete her grooming ritual, she performs a pirouette, leaps into the air and runs throughout the house coming to a complete stop in front of the window. She takes her bow to me only, raises her head, startled by broke glass and drops to the floor. I pack up my rifle and gear and head to my car parked at the bottom of the hill.

I drive and listen to  Chopin Nocturne Op. 9 No. 2 play throughout the interior. The notes somber resonance relaxes me on my journey. The only thing that is truly immortal.

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