The Assassin - Original Writing Essay

The Assassin - Original Writing Essay

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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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