He knew what he had to do. Never ask questions. That had always been his job. To do as told. He lay in his car waiting outside the interest’s house. He waited inside the cold warmth of his car drenched in the scent of coffee from the freshner. The man inside the house did not know that death rested outside, waiting for the right time.
After eagerly waiting for what seemed like an eternity, he checked his watch, finally it said ‘it was time’. He rubbed his palm over his razor edged 5’o clock on the neck and face, checked his gun and took a deep breath.
“One more time.” He said to himself.
He left his car unlocked and slowly walked towards the door. He stood outside the door for a while, like he almost heard something. A strange feeling. It was as if he had been here before. But that is not possible. What is happening? He felt so strangely good. He circled around slowly to the side that he had chosen to get in from when he had strolled past the same house today. Did he smoke something wrong today? Why this strange comfort? His hands did not tremble tonight. No. Which was strange, they always trembled. Something was going to go wrong, it felt like. Though he felt good.
It was as if a music began playing in his head. A melody from his bosom. A tune from some movie that his mother used to savor. Melodious. Glimpses, memories too, followed soon. He could smell his home. Where he used to play all day. Running around with his brother. The smell reminded him of one of those days. He chased his brother inside his house. An old, small house in Palestine. His mother would shout at them. Oh the words in her beautiful tongue. She had always been ill, but her voice, upright loud. His long lost family. Only if he knew what had become of them. 15 years have passed. What became of his brother? Sometimes he thinks of him. But not so often.
That life is over. He hadn’t had time to care for what became of them ever since. He’s in the States now. Here to have a new beginning. A beginning soaked in blood. He’s since been nothing more than a killer. A hitman. He never liked it. He never liked alcohol too… Or drugs. But he smoked.
He had been murdering people for years now. It used to haunt him, his own becoming. What was he now? Someone free? Free?… The fragrance grew stronger. The memories even more. His brother had hid himself somewhere. He was getting good at this. His tactics had been very simpler in the past, but they’ve been evolving slowly. He was growing up, growing smarter.
The house wasn’t supposed to be empty. He was sure the interest was home. His car was still outside. His bed is empty. He can’t be awake at this hour… Something’s wrong. Slowly he moved outside the room. Towards the stairs. The house seemed dead, empty. There wasn’t much furniture either. Whoever this guy was, he’d not been here for long. He cared less about that for now.
When he would look everywhere for his brother and not find him, he would go to his mother in the kitchen and ask “Have you seen Akhu?”
She would smile and mischievously say “No.”
He would troll back in curiosity and sit on the sofa, in front of the television. He would turn it on and watch whatever he couldn’t understand. He was dumber, he would realize that. It was defeat that he would taste everyday. He fought daily, he fought hard, but he lost everyday. He would try to comprehend the fact that he couldn’t catch his brother. That he had outgrown him.
His father took him to a scrapyard one day. He showed him the giant ants of the desert. He would tell him how they were not something dreadful, but a unit. How they would always find their way home. How also some wouldn’t. Those unlucky few would eventually die off. Alone. Unnoticed. A death that would be necessary. He would try to explain how the death was important for the species as a whole. Slowly, how the ants would get better every time, in finding their way back. How every death of an unfortunate ant would contribute to the betterment of everyone else.
The smell was so strong. He slowly went into the kitchen. The man was nowhere to be found. He came back. A sofa in front of a television. He sunk in it slowly. Turned on the television. Strolled through the channels until he found Cartoon Network. Strange, why didn’t he watch cartoons anymore he thought. They weren’t as fun but they were so good.
When he was small his defeat would be soon forgotten when a smile would be drawn on by Tom and Jerry. He would laugh, it would be the laughter that would alert his brother of his defeat. He would then jump on his back from behind and make peace. They would laugh together watching cartoons, as equals. Those days were different. In a different land. His brother once again appeared behind him, with a gun. Aimed at the intruder, that brought a gun, to kill him. He had seen him before. In the day when he rather innocently strolled by. Something strange about his face. He knew it was the same guy when he saw him in the car parked outside his house. He knew what he had to do. He hid himself with his gun in the cabinet in the kitchen.
He slowly opened the door when heard the man sat himself and the television turned itself on. He slowly got out with his gun drawn to find out the man was watching commercials on Cartoon Network. His gun where the remote was, the remote in his hand. When he began walking towards his back bewilderingly, he made a squish from his sole and alerted the man. The man dropped the remote and picked his gun up, trying to whirl around. A bright flash and a sound. He shot the guy in the chest who took a step back and landed on his back. The man was in panic. He could not believe he was shot by his brother. He was defeated yet again. He could not find his way home. Dying an unfortunate death, he recalled in sadness, that his mother lied to him. Everyday. He truly was an unfortunate ant. An ant born to die.