Smoked

The swift rain falls gently over us while I try to figure it out.

I take a puff. Nothing happens.

I’d thought that I’d be feeling something by now. But no. Not even a single sign of remorse.

Another puff. Still nothing.

Just a minute ago, when I leaned over his dead body to look in the inside pocket of his jacket for the lighter, I thought I was starting to feel it. But no. Nothing at all.

I keep thinking I should be feeling something, Anything at all that resembles remorse. After all, we grew up together; he was the best man at my wedding and the godfather of my children.

One more puff. Still nothing.

It’s pretty clear that he screwed up. I mean, there was no way for him to get away with that. He knew it too, and even then, he didn’t try to run away or hide, or even lay low for a while.

The smoke of the cigarette flows over my head as I puff one more time. Thinking.

It was out of respect that I decided to kill him myself. It would have been an insult just to send “one of the boys” to finish him. It had to be me. He deserved it.

I didn’t even have to look too hard, he was there, at the bar we used to go since we were young, like he was waiting for me. Even though, he looked pretty surprised to see me arrive.

He finished his drink and followed me outside without saying a word. He was afraid, he knew what was coming, but still, he took it like a man. His knees shook a little when he heard me say that line repeated so many times: “It’s just business”.

It really was. He knew it. I’d never use a gun in a personal matter. I prefer my hands. It’s more… personal… But for this, the gun is quick and painless.

He looked at me. In his eyes I could see that he knew I wasn’t going to spare him. There was no hate, though, just a look of acknowledgment and forgiveness. Maybe even gratefulness for being me, and not some unknown thug who might not even know who was he killing or why.

I take another puff while I relive the moment. He was standing right there, aside from the dumpster, just listening to me. He had proven himself worthy of the respect I felt – and still feel – for him.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t plead. He just stood still, looking right into my eyes while I pulled the trigger.

In the end, everyone will know I did it, they’re just not going to be able to prove it. The job is done. The message is sent. I did what I had to do.

I still wish I felt something, otherwise I might start believing I’m the heartless bastard they all say I am.

The cigarette is almost finished, and the police will be here at any moment. Someone must’ve heard the shot and called them. So I just wipe the gun, throw it inside the dumpster and head back inside the bar.

The barman pours me a shot while I light another cigarette.

A puff. I still feel nothing. I finish up the drink, and in one quick move I stand up.

I was right: I can hear the sirens getting to the back alley while I leave the bar through the front door. I fix the collar of my overcoat and put my hat back on, while I walk towards my car.

One last puff while I enter and close the door, and still feel nothing. I guess it’s true: I’m dead inside.

I drive away. The image of his dead body, under the rain, by the dumpster, roams my head while the red and blue lights reflect on my rear view mirror. I reach in my pocket once again for his lighter. Another one for my already crowded collection. Most of them from the times I did this for a living.

I light another cigarette while I wait for the red light to turn green, thinking once again that I should be feeling something by now.