The Assassin

He skulked in the shadows, watching and waiting, his breath filling the air in a soft cloud, then disappearing. His dark binding coat, failing to shade him from the bitter coldness. He raised his miss coloured, fleshy hand towards his face and softly rubbed the long scar that was on the left hand side of his face, it cut through the corner of his eye and finished on his bottom lip. He watched from his sunken eyes, the winds movement, following every move it made. Out of the shadows he came and leaned against a lone, dully lit lamppost. Steam from the sewers below provided little heat for him; then a strand of blond hair fell from the shelter of his hood and swayed with the wind.
For hours it seemed nothing happened, all that could be heard was the steady beating of the mans heart. Surrounding buildings lights began to flicker off, leaving only the lampposts to shed light on the nearly deserted streets. Alleyways became alive with mangy, starving cats crawling through bins with to find little scraps of food humans had thrown out, whilst fat rats scurried across the floor searching for food they didn’t need. Grey snow began to fall coating everything it landed on in a grey blanket. Yet the man was still breathing slowly, not caring about how cold it was, or if he was he didn’t show it.
A short stubby man walked down the slippery street. He walked slowly, not realising figure leaning against the dull lamppost. As he walked past the figure he felt the hidden eyes burning deep into him, watching the cold sweet starting to drip from his forehead, and he thought he felt the anger the figure possessed. His speed quickened and his right eye started to twitch. As he turned the corner he peered behind him to see that the figure hadn’t moved, and was almost certain he wasn’t going to be followed, this caused him to slow his pace.
He kept on walking, not realising he had been wrong and he was now in-fact being followed. The figure had chosen his moment to pounce, as he moved closer to the man, not worrying about being seen, reached deep into his coat and pulled out a small, smooth knife. He was weary of the puddles of ice and trod carefully not to tread on them and fall. The man in front stopped at the edge of the road and bent down to tie up his shoe. As he got up and went to cross the road, out of the corner of his eye he saw the blade move closer. With one slice he fell to the floor and the hot, salty blood ran from his neck and dyed the snow a deep, dark red.
His killer took the time to watch his prey die, standing over him like a shadow of death, showing no remorse. When the man was surely dead, his killer took the bloody knife and wiped it on the victims shirt, then placed it on to the mans chest. As he turned to leave he tightened his coat around his chest, and in his usual manner, bent down and place a small silver cross next to the mans body. Then he turned his back on the victim, asked god to accept the man into heaven, and walked off down the street, never to be seen again.