Chapter 7 Will There Be a Tomorrow?
The silence that followed roared in their ears. Panting heavily, they stared at each other. Their chests heaved synchronously from the effort of the fight, and their bodies were so tightly pressed together that they could feel the other's heartbeat.
Vincent moved first.
Out of necessity.
He sat back, smoothened out his clothes and pulled his fingers through his hair, in an attempt to get himself back in order. He looked bothered though, flushed, and his usual calm was gone. Raising his hand, he wiped some blood off from his upper lip, and glanced in her direction with a slight twitch in his face.
Sarah didn't move. She watched his movements with a blank face; her head was spinning.
What did I say? I didn't mean it! Of course I didn't mean it!
Slowly, she sat back up, not bothering with her clothes the way Vincent had. She was tired, feeling a little sick all of a sudden. Looking down at her trembling hands, turned palm-up, she inspected the fine lines there. One of them was supposed to be the life line. Wonder which one, wonder where it ends…She pressed the heels of her hands hard against her eyes, inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly.
"Why do you want to know?" she asked finally, removing her hands and looking up at Vincent. Her hands shook as she poured herself another drink. She raised the bottle questioningly at Vincent, who nodded. The neck of the bottle rattled against the glass, and Vincent placed a steady, warm hand over hers to help her out.
-
He sighed. Why does she have to be so difficult?
"Someone wants you dead. Somewhere along the line of your life, you made choices leading up to the point where we are today." Led me to you. "This is not a coincidence, Sarah. You have to tell me."
Sarah chewed on her lower lip, seemingly processing this information. "So, you're not just plain curious then?"
His lips twitched slightly. So bold all of a sudden?
"I'll tell you if you tell me something first." Sarah straightened herself and drank some. "Give and take."
Vincent considered this for a moment; then he nodded. "Fair enough. What do you want to know?"
"How did you become a hitman?"
He laughed. "A hitman? Well, there was this ad…"
Sarah laughed, she actually laughed. Vincent felt slightly pleased to see that; he found it amazing how her mood had been switching throughout the night; fear – anger – lust – joy – fear – lust… That's how real people act…
What do you feel now, Sarah?
She fell silent and nodded, 'go on'.
"After high school I joined the army, didn't have anywhere else to go. Accepted me there, didn't ask questions. Discipline. Good life." He paused as his thoughts strayed back twenty years. "They sent me off to countries with names I couldn't even spell. Had me kill people there, lots of people, in the name of causes I never knew existed, in wars that no one's ever heard of..." He looked her straight in the eye and gave a barely visible shrug. "And I didn't care. I was cold."
He laughed shortly, and poured some more of the scotch. "They discovered I had a talent. Got some special training… and the privilege to kill off more of US's enemies, both abroad and here, at home."
Yeah… at home too…
Vincent raised his glass and saluted before he drank a little. He knew he was beginning to look worn out. He felt like shit, if he was honest, with a whisper of a headache and a nagging feeling of some unknown loss… The whole evening he had kept his usual cool, stayed untouchable. Now he must appear… human… weak - everything he despised...But Sarah was pretty drunk; she shouldn't pay that much attention. Vincent felt far from sober too; he'd kept up the pace with her or, rather, exceeded it since they got here.
"Who are 'they'?" Sarah whispered, clearly taken aback by what he'd told.
"Really can't tell you. I'd have to kill you." His eyes narrowed menacingly as he looked at her, challenging her with his gaze.
Sarah burst out laughing. She laughed out loud and then it turned into a giggle. Falling back on the couch, she held her stomach and laughed until she cried. Vincent didn't say a word, and he didn't move a muscle, he carefully hid the little twitch in his cheek that wanted to join in. Finally she turned quiet, and all that was left were the tears on her cheeks.
-
"No, seriously, who?" Sarah wiped away some of the wetness on her cheeks with the back of her hand. He's so damn funny!
"You ever vote?"
"Yeah…"
"There's your answer." He said it simply, like it was the most trivial thing to tell. The implications were huge… Jesus, where am I in all this?
"Fuck! Are you telling me the GOVERNMENT sent you to kill me?" Her eyes were round and large, and just a little out of focus, as she stared at him.
Sarah flinched as he started laughing. At first she felt embarrassed because he laughed at her, but he was such a beautiful sight, and his chuckling was so contagious, that soon she joined in as well.
Vincent finally turned quiet and looked, almost affectionately, at her. "Been in the private sector eight years now. Government wants nothing from you, little Sarah. They'd love to wipe ME off the map, though."
"But then…?" She frowned and tried to understand, she was not thinking straight any more. This was all too much.
"Private contractors," he said.
"Oh." She looked pleadingly at him. "But…"
Vincent shook his head, barely visible.
She nodded, she knew the answer; he'd already told her on the way to the jazz club. "…you don't know who."
He smiled and stretched out a hand. Sarah leaned into the touch, as he slowly stroked her left cheek with the back of his hand. She had noticed before that he had callused palms, and now she felt that the rest of his hand was used to labor as well, with those rough knuckles. Yeah… some labor! She shivered as she realized what he could do with those hands, and pulled back a little. Vincent immediately retreated and sat back.
He considered her for a moment. "My turn," he said and smiled sardonically.
Sarah took a deep breath, and braced herself for what was to come. She had promised to tell him the story of the scar…
"A man," she whispered.
"A man? Your man?" He focused completely on her, as though absorbed by what she was about to reveal.
"No…" She shook her head repeatedly. "Some guy I was with…"
"Why were you with him?"
Damn! He can't let anything pass, can he!? "He-e… we were supposed to…" Her heart beat faster now, and her mouth was turning dry. She really didn't want to tell him, knowing all too well what was going to happen. He'll be mad. He'll be really, really mad…he'll kill me for wasting my life, for not deserving it!
"We were going to… have sex…" She stared at her hands resting in her lap.
"And he cut your face?" Vincent raised his eyebrows as if in disbelief. "Sounds like an odd thing to do. Why?"
"Didn't like the way I looked," Sarah whispered.
Vincent's eyes narrowed as her considered her. "Sarah!"
Her hands flew up to hide her face. "He was a customer…" She didn't dare to breathe. Keeping her eyes closed and her palms tightly pressed against her face, she awaited death… or at least some amount of pain.
Sarah jolted as she felt his fingers carefully removing first one hand and placing it in her lap, and then the other.
"Why did you think it'd bother me that much?" he asked gently, frowning as if he really didn't understand and needed her to clarify it.
Opening her eyes, she glanced at him. "I thought…. you'd… disapprove…" she mumbled, not daring to remind him of what he'd said before: 'We are granted the gift of life and look what we make of it. We spit in the face of our maker! They had it coming, Sarah. They all do.'
Jesus, I'm tired now.
Leaning her head back, she relaxed against the couch, feeling her body go limp as all the tension left her. It felt like the worst part was done now.
The worst part of the telling…
-
Surprisingly enough, Vincent had been a good listener as she'd told him what she'd been up to in the long, sad years between her twenties and thirties.
He hadn't said much, and her story had been interrupted by long breaks, especially when she'd told him the more painful parts; Mark, the gang rape, the cutting… She'd fled to the bathroom a couple of times to calm
herself, splash some water onto her face and wipe her nose before continuing, and Vincent had stayed patient with her all the time.
Afterwards, Sarah had cried some and Vincent had refilled her glass. He'd showed no signs of being angry, and he hadn't raised his voice.
Not until she proudly explained how she'd lived her life the last four years…
-
"…so, you see, I have this steady job now, and a place of my own." She made a gesture with her hands, as if showing her apartment. "I'm even trying to save some money for college, I want to become someone one day, do something important…"
"But what do you do?"
Sarah frowned, she didn't understand the question. "What do you mean? I work. I don't do drugs any more, and I'm off the streets. I'd say that's quite an achievement!"
Vincent leaned forward, slightly agitated and with just a hint of slurring evident as he spoke. "Are you tellin' me you do nothing but work and… what!?"
"But… but…?" Sarah was totally confused now.
Vincent leaned back and said with arrogance evident in his voice: "Why did you dodge that bullet?
She rose suddenly, in anger. Her cheeks had little red spots on them as she spat at him. "I wanted to live!"
"What the hell have you got to live for?" he asked coldly.
Vincent drank the last of the scotch and set the thick glass down hard on the table before standing up, face to face with her.
"You wake up, go to work, go home, eat your pathetic little microwave dinner, watch TV and go to bed. Every day the fucking same." He nailed her with his gaze. "Give me one fucking reason why I shouldn't just do my job, finish this contract and get out of here, and on with my life!"
"I was happy!" she cried. He'd hurt her. He'd hit a nerve and he knew it.
"Like hell you were, Sarah!" he spat. "Like hell you were" he muttered, and stretched out for the bottle to pour some more scotch into his glass before sitting back onto the couch.
Sarah remained standing, too upset to even think about what she was saying. "Why don't you just kill yourself instead, if life is as meaningless as you rant about all the time? Why take it out on me?" She pulled the bottle out of his grip after he was finished and filled her own glass to the rim. "You're so full of it," she snarled and sat back down, swaying a little as she did.
Sarah screamed, as he grabbed her arm and held it tightly "I'm so full of what?" he asked, leaning forward, so close to her that she could feel his hot, scotch drenched breath on her lips, his eyes flashing dangerously dark.
Her heart pounded wildly, and she had a whooshing noise in her ears. She was afraid again. But it wasn't only fear this time; other feelings intermingled as well. There was something so appealing to this situation. Three or four years ago, she knew she wouldn't have tried to avoid the bullet. She would have welcomed it!
She had never had the courage to take her own life, to end her pain, and here he was, offering her the opportunity. Maybe it'd even be quick, painless? A part of her played with the thought of asking him to do it, to finish his contract. She was pulled towards him, more and more, and she knew it. He was like a dark sun that had entered her universe – her gravitating towards him – or perhaps he was more like a black hole…
Her biggest fear at the moment was that he would know it too.
Sarah didn't think. Whether it was the heavy drinking, or the long-lost feelings of her childhood, she didn't know; but something made her move. She leaned forward and let her lips brush against his. Then she jerked back, astounded by her own actions.
Vincent looked shocked.
The fact that she could surprise him like that made Sarah giggle out loud.
"You're drunk!" he concluded as he regained his composure.
"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't be," she replied.
"No. Go ahead. Drink yourself into a stupor, if it makes it easier for you." Vincent shrugged indifferently and leaned back onto the sofa. His eyes lingered a little longer on her lips than he had intended, though.
That last part sobered Sarah slightly. She really didn't want to die. And yes, she was drinking, trying to avoid the facts of the situation.
Maybe if she was unconscious she wouldn't have to suffer the humiliation of begging for her life.
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