by Sam Batty
Drawing a deep, measured breath, Daryl steadied his nerves, the meditative rhythm flowing through him like a calming river. Exhaling slowly, he silently commanded his racing heart to slow its frantic pace. He found himself sequestered atop a distant hillock, peering at the clandestine rendezvous that was about to unfold. The ghostly specter of his mother’s disappointment flitted across his mind’s eye. Another breath, in and out, and it was gone.
Focus.
His head swayed from side to side, a physical manifestation of the mental exercise he underwent to empty his mind of distractions. His left eye found its familiar place against the cold, metallic rim of his rifle’s scope.
Daryl had an odd proclivity, a quirky habit if you may, of christening his guns. The nature of firearms, their silent obedience, their ability to speak only when commanded intrigued him. Naming them, he found, gave them a personality, a voice that only he could hear. A companion that never interfered and only interacted at his request. Over the course of fifty-two jobs, this particular quirk meant that Daryl rarely needed to converse with the human populace. Tonight, on this 53rd assignment, this would remain the same. The gun entrusted to him was christened Darkness.
Darkness was the physical manifestation of a black hole, its hue so dark it could blend seamlessly into the shadows. Its beauty lay in its obscurity, its invisibility. It was an instrument of lethal artistry forged by the most skilled gunsmiths. Darkness had the unique ability to make Daryl smile – a rare spectacle – and it had earned a new name in the process.
The act of naming a weapon was an intimate affair, an unhurried ceremony of respect and admiration. Daryl tweaked the scope, narrowing the field of vision to the coordinates provided by his elusive employer. One might assume that after numerous jobs, he’d at least catch a glimpse of his mysterious benefactor. But the rules of their shadowy profession forbade such familiarity.
Another drawn-out breath marked the end of his curiosity. There was talk about “being a ghost” – insubstantial rhetoric spewed by some forgettable entity. Daryl agreed with the sentiment, adjusting the weight of Darkness against his shoulder. The familiar burden was comforting, the prelude to a carefully choreographed dance of death.
Tonight, Darkness would take center stage, the curtain-raiser to the grim spectacle about to unfold. Be a ghost, Daryl mused, embracing the concept wholeheartedly. And while he was at it, he’d add a few more phantoms to the ether.
© Sam Batty 2023-03-20