The Assassin - Original Writing

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The Assassin - Original Writing The silvery shadow could be seen up against the dark wall of the damp, dimly lit cellar, it oozed a musky smell of mould and there was a distinct waft of a dead forest floor. The walls were covered with peeling paint and dark, aged wallpaper. The cellar was carpet less, just old, wooden floorboards and a dirty rug in the corner. The shadow of a man, around six feet tall was quite skinny, with long arms and legs and dressed in a smart, long black coat. He wasn't moving, only speaking into a small device which he held in front of his face. The voice was so cold and harsh it sounded like glass splinters. The shadow turned on the spot and began, without rushing, to slowly open a small wooden draw, slid out an object which glinted in the light and observed it carefully. The black, metallic implement shimmered once again. He reached his long, spider like fingers inside his long, dark jacket and placed it deep within the inside pocket, buttoned it and turned around. He reached for an oddly shaped box on top of the table in front of him and that too disappeared into the jacket. He sauntered over to the wooden staircase and took a deep breath before climbing. He clambered up the stairs to the door that lay ajar, and flung it open. Slowly, he walked through the room, picked up a long bag which was readily packed, slung it over his shoulder and proceeded to walk through the house. He reached the top floor and opened a hatch, which lead out onto to the roof. He grabbed the sides and pulled himself through, looked around in the almost pitch black surroundings, dropped the bag and shut the hatch. The weather ... ... middle of paper ... ... flights of stairs. Clambering through the hatch he could see him. "You're there! ". But still he didn't reply and he didn't move; only lay there in the same position as before, his gun pointing forward. Then he noticed the small hole in the back of his head, trickling blood. He was obviously dead. The target had fled but behind the assassin, in the window of An abandoned house across the way stood a man, around six feet three and built like a bull. He had the same piercing eyes and the same cold looking face. He just stared, emotionless, then began dismantling his gun, putting the sights into his long bag and his box of bullets back into his coat pocket. This assassin had been successful. His working day had ended well and he still had a family to go home to. The assassin had been assassinated.

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