The Contract

My name is Vincent Carrea. I'm 37 years old, single, and not even remotely looking for a relationship. There are far more important things to accomplish. Besides, my life is not ordinary. I don't think anyone else would be quite as accepting of who I am. Who else can you trust in this world, but yourself? Character? I've got character. Many may not agree with the defining attributes of my character, yet there's no denying it, I've got character. I revere a persons' core character as undeniable and inevitably inherent. While you can mask some of these traits, you will never escape them. They are definitive for life. Accept, embrace, and fulfill your destiny. Am I just establishing a method for a guiltless evasion of responsibilities for my actions? I've noticed now, dwelling on and debating these thoughts, the body laying on the floor has started turning new shades of grey. I take a deep breath as I close my eyes and attempt to store an image of her, a silent frame of beauty, into my mind. The slow, short drip of blood at the corner of her slightly open mouth is the only piece of the image that has any color. I will remember her. Thirty eight minutes have passed. I've taken it all in, appreciated and verified every detail. I am done here. With a slight tug on her scarf, I lift it to my nose before folding it and placing it in my pocket. I retrieve the contract out from under my coat, and slide the signed brown parchment under her head. Tilting my hat to her, I walk to the door. As I step out, a cold breeze from the Grady River brushes over my face, and I barely smile. This is me, there's no denying it - and I love it. I arrive at my home, and heat up something to eat. While I'm waiting, I start sketching the burned image from my mind. I sense it before he arrives. The shadow, darkening the hallway, closing nearer my desk. I raise my head from the stock of newspapers around me. He is ready for another soul. I accept the parchment he carries. His gruff tone is calm and commanding, as it fades out, and the shadow recesses to nowhere. I put my hat and coat back on - no rest for the weary or the sinners of the world. He’s back. I sense it. I halt - as I notice the name on the document: Vincent Carrea.