There is no wind in the marshes. The heat sticks to the grass and the trees as the insects float lazily over the heat waves, visible across the horizon. In a quiet little cabin, buried in the woods, Blake sat at the kitchen table, tacitly cleaning the barrel of his revolver. Technically, the gun belonged to his boss, but today, it was in his possession. It was old, but rarely used and well maintained. Blake stopped cleaning the barrel and picked up the lone bullet on the table, with the name ‘Barry’ inscribed on it, he felt the grooves on the inscription, with a growing sense of dread and a knot in his stomach, as he turned the cool brass over in his fingers.
Blake could hear his mentor, Barry, stir awake from the next room. He checked the clock on the wall, which read eleven thirty-seven, an odd time to wake up, especially on your last day alive. Barry emerged from the room, audibly stretching, in good spirits, as he went straight to the kitchen to put the kettle on, and got to work cooking some bacon on the stove.
“Good morning, lad!” He shouted jubilantly. Blake remained quiet, pensive, as Barry monologued. “I tell you what boy-o, I slept like a fucking log. I been in your position more times than I can count, and every dumb-fuck idiot that’s been in my shoes has woke up at the crack of dawn,” Barry began, as the kettle boiled and he poured himself a coffee, occasionally turning and exalting his points with wild waves of the hand, “always trying to seize the day or something, Carpe Diem or some shit. Like there’s any Diem to fucking Carpe in the fucking Marshes. That boss of ours. Jesus. A ‘kindness’ he calls this, you believe that? What a fucking joke. Give them one last day eh? In the fucking marshes of all places,” Barry’s posture dropped as he let out the smallest sighs and almost whispered, “What a fucking joke.”
With the coffee brewed and the breakfast fresh, Barry came over to the table beside Blake, who was doing the final checks on the gun.
“It never failed me once, it’ll be just fine,” assured Barry.
“Just following protocol,” replied Blake, coldly.
“’Just following protocol’,” Barry mocked. “That really the only thing you’re gonna fucking say to me today? You nervous or something? Worried about popping your cherry?” Barry continued to mock as he ate and drank his coffee.
“You don’t think I can do it?” Blake challenged, briefly stopping his prep to stare down Barry.
“Oh, of that I’ve got no doubt, boy-o” Barry looked deep into the eyes of the man he raised in this business, “It’s what comes after that worries me.”
The pair sat in silence as Barry finished his breakfast. The echoing buzz of the mosquitos and the distant chorus of the chirping crickets providing the backdrop to the worst morning of Blake’s life. Barry ate happily, his face showing no signs of fear, dread, or even regret.