by Jim Graves

He didn’t know what the problem was. He had washed his hands for the third time and it was still there. Why wouldn’t the blood go away? He had never had this problem before.

The guy had begged. They all beg. ‘Please don’t kill me?’ They start praying to a God they have never acknowledged in their entire lives until the moment they are faced with their own demise, hoping He will hear them and send down some divine intervention. He never does. They all die.

He washed his hands again. Still there. “Why want it go away?” He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.

The man had cried at the end, ‘Please, don’t do this? I’ll give you money.’ He had been offered money before. Did they not understand he’s already getting paid? But still, the man had cried and begged. It wears on you.

He washed again, scrubbing with the wire brush. Why were the stains still there? The floor beneath him was covered in blood. He couldn’t remember how many people he had killed.

He put the barrel of the pistol in his mouth and squeezed the trigger.

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