— @euphoriatus
It would be like pulling teeth, he could feel it in his bones, riding along the edges of his cuticles, and nibbling at the tips of his fingers, at the tender flesh that barely peeked out from beneath the end of his nails. He curled his fingers underneath, towards his palms as if in search of some false sense of security, hopefulness that the tingling in his being would subside.
Photos lined the walls like memories stapled to the front of his skull: at the forefront and unnecessarily aggressive in their pixelated joy. It seemed that no matter where he had moved in the room that the eyes followed him, and while those of the Mona Lisa did not make her viewers uncomfortable, the Englishman grew concerned at such an ability of these family photographs.
The room was, in short, atrociously decorated, at least that was the conclusion he came to after sitting in the corner’s rocking chair for a few hours, his rear going numb by the time he heard the home’s front door jiggle with the entry of the key.
Adjusting his position in the chair, he rested on palm on the leg of his suit pants. His other hand calmly rested a Beretta 92 FS on his right thigh, eyes on the bedroom door as he removed a silencer from his pocket, screwing it on as he listened to the approaching footsteps.
As the door’s handle turned slowly, the man’s bright eyes flickered to look at the soundly sleeping child. She was but two years old, unaware that she wouldn’t see another birthday or morning meal. How innocent. How... unfortunate.
The creek of the hinges drew his attention back to the door, and while most of him was doused in shadows, his presence was clear.
