Does time really heal all wounds? Or does it just prolong the agony? For me… I never really experienced that healing process. The pain subsided somewhat… but it was still there. Lurking underneath the surface. And with the slightest provocation… I would lash out.
It was the beast in me.
I couldn’t control it.
I had a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde personality. Though to tell you the truth… I was never really a Dr. Jekyll. I was a lighter version of Mr. Hyde.
I didn’t realize it at the time… but the woman that helped to raise me, broke through my defensive shield. I too, like her, wound up disliking people and not trusting anyone.
In prison I was constantly in trouble. And some of the prisoners liked that and were taking notice. I was making a name for myself.
These guys were people that were connected. People that could help me when I got out. People that could use a guy like me.
They introduced me to a new Family.
I was twenty-three when I got out of prison. And the Empire State welcomed me. The five families welcomed me. I did my first hit six months later with a guy named Auggie. He was an old timer. He watched while I pulled the trigger.
I was amazed. I didn’t feel anything at all.
No sympathy for the victim. No remorse. I was a natural.
That was my first hit and when I got home, I took off my black belt and made a notch in it with my knife.
I decided that whenever I would do a hit, I would wear my Lucky black belt. And I would only wear it for those occasions. And for every hit… I made a mark in the belt.
Most of my hits were done in America. But I did a few in Europe and two in Canada and one in South America.
Vanity of vanities. Isn’t that what the Good Book Teaches? Everything is transient. It’s fleeting. Our lives are like a wisp of smoke… no sooner seen and then gone.
But people are going to remember me. I’m a legend already.
Maybe I’m too proud? But I’m one of the best at what I do. And I get paid accordingly.
I never knew anything about the mark. I don’t know if they’re married or if they have a family. Most of the time, I don’t even know why they’re being targeted.
None of that matters. All I need is a name and photo. And any information that can help me carry out the hit.
If they give me your name and photo… you’re as good as dead.
I never fail!
There was only one time that I actually talked to the mark.
I was sitting in a restaurant and watching him. I was eating Lasagna. And I thought to myself, I hope he has a good meal. That’s going to be his last.
He got up from his table and joined me. I couldn’t believe it.
He said, “Ti piacerebbe un bicchiere di vino? Odio vedere qualcuno senza vino.”
I responded, “I love wine with my meals too. When I see people eating and they don’t have a glass of wine with the meal… It’s because they have no real appetite for the finer things in life. They have no class. But I have business to take care of. I never mix wine with business. Only with pleasure.”
He smiled and went back to his table and rejoined the woman he was dining with.
He seemed to be enjoying her company. He had a belly-shaking laugh. And she was an older woman with silver braids, who spoke softly, with shrieks of laughter.
I finished eating and waited for them outside the restaurant. I was across the street. I looked up.
It was a moonlit night that sparkled with stars. And it reminded me of when I was a kid and would look out my bedroom window and marvel at the vast universe.
And as I got older, I wondered… who am I?
Nobody.
As insignificant as a grain of sand on the beach.
I followed them for a couple of blocks.
They were walking back to his apartment. But they made a fatal mistake. They walked down a deserted street.
It felt surreal.
I felt like I was in a theatre watching a movie, and something horrible was about to happen.
I quickened my pace. I was now much more focused and intense.
I could see the darkness surrounding them, and their voices and laughter seemed muffled.
The smell of death was in the air.
I was a lion stalking its prey. Ready for the kill.
Bang! Bang! I killed him and the woman with him. Both shot in the back of the head.
Normally, I just kill the mark. But this man was giving testimony to a secret grand jury. It involved the mob’s infiltration of the unions in New York.
An informant, one of the many that the mob has, gave them that information. The Hit had to be done right away.
The woman… She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Shit happens. That’s been my story… all my life.
It’s been many years since my first hit. The summer of my life is almost over. Now all I see is winter ahead. And those that I’ve killed are haunting me.
But I’m not a cruel man. I don’t know why they’re haunting me. It was better that they died at my hand.
They never see me coming. They never see me at all. They experience no fear. No regret. No pain.
There is no idle chatter between us. No one is begging for their life. They’re not pleadingly searching my eyes with theirs for a glint of hope or mercy. And their fearful eyes are not met with a steely gaze of indifference.
Not a bad deal.
They don’t die, with me, their killer, being the last thing that they see. And they don’t die frightened.
Not a bad deal at all.
At the end of our lives how many of us will be able to say the same thing, as the Grim Reaper comes knocking at our hospital door. And he will be coming… don’t kid yourself.
Sometimes the marks die while they’re laughing or with a smile on their face. One shot to the back of the head and it’s all over.
I’m like the Grim Reaper in 14th century Europe during the Black Death, which killed around a third of the population.
No heart. No compassion. No mercy. I don’t feel anything as I pull the trigger. I don’t feel anything as I end your life.
He left the bar.
There weren’t too many people around. I caught up to him and shot him once in the back of the head. He never saw me coming. I was like a thief in the night. But I didn’t rob him of his possessions… I robbed him of his life.
One minute he was here… and the next he’s gone. I hope I die like that. That’s better than being sick and tortured in a hospital bed.
That’s better than having all kinds of things attached to you and shitting into a diaper.
That’s better than having a fake hand of hope being extended to you and at the last minute it’s pulled away.
That’s better than them keeping you alive for another pay day. While your dignity and honor are being humiliated.
That’s better than being surrounded by vultures, and you’re just another bed number to them.
Next!
I tossed the gun into the street. I took off the gloves and I stuffed them into my pockets.
When I got home… I burned the gloves. There was no physical evidence linking me to the crime.
I took off my black belt and notched my fiftieth hit into it.
Photo by Craig Whitehead via Unsplash.
Fictional stories by John Saccone 
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