The Ocean's Assassin

The waves of the ocean crashing against a day's worth of worn in sand is a calming and familiar loudness I can't seem to place. The problems I have faced throughout the week simply wash away with the tide. It cleanses me. I get so dirty so quickly, not with soot or grime from working hard physically, but from draining myself mentally. I am so drained. So exhausted. Her siren songs call to me in my darkest hours and I have no other choice but to drive towards her. Nothing in me wants to resist, even if it may not be a wise decision to go see her. I'm in love with her. How could I possibly neglect those emotions and force myself to suffer from the sharp dagger that is my desperation for her? And so I go.

Under the stars and the moonlight she always gives me the answers I need. How do I continue on in this unforgiving and dark world that we live in when all I want to put out is an endless ray of light for everyone to bask in? She tells me. What do I do when I feel as though I have reached rock bottom, stumbling along in this life without a sense of purpose? She tells me. I am willing to die for her. I am willing to kill for her.

I meet here, on this beach, every Tuesday morning. Three o'clock in the morning. Not any sooner and certainly not one minute later. The only thing I have to accompany my person is a small black notebook in which I entrust not only with my darkest secrets, but a stranger's as well.

"You're late."

Footsteps come to a halt behind me and I can feel the surrounding energy turn murky. "I- I'm sorry. I got pulled over on my way here, I s-swear I would've been here promptly otherwise."

I turned to face a pathetic scene. It was a small man, standing around 5'7 with a sickly frame, shaggy hair, and a light complexion. The white stripes on his shirt, opposite of the blue, were adorned with dark brown stains. His jeans had been distressed, not purposely though. There was a story behind the rips and the dirty stripes. I could see it lying behind his fearful eyes. So sad and desperate for help he could not provide for himself. I studied him, but only for a moment more. "Where are your shoes?"

"My... shoes?" He looked down, shock and confusion appearing on his face. "Oh! Well would you look at that," the man chuckled, "I guess I m-must have lost them on the way here. Or maybe I forgot them at home. I don't really remember if I'm being honest." I smirked. He was an amusing character. Squirely, young, and desperate. Just how I liked them.

I looked back and gazed once again out into the ocean's sky. At this point in the night, it was hard to tell where the water would end and the sky would begin. They dance so beautifully together that I never mind the confusion. Not one of them was the chosen leader, but both of them respected partners.

"Please," he stammered out. "I need your help."

"Come and sit down next to me."

He slowly dragged his feet through the smooth sand. As he moved I took my small notebook out from my rear pocket, grabbing the pen sticking out from behind my ear. "Tell me."

His hands were tucked under his bottom and he began to cry. "I love her so much. I do! And I didn't mean anything by it. It was just a s-small mistake and that girl meant nothing to me compared to what my Ana does-"

"If she means so much to you why did you sleep with another woman, Jonas?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" he shouted. The sad and whimpered tone of his words quickly took upon an angry personality, and as his plea of innocence became that of guilt the wind changed with his motive. The direction was sporadic, the temperature dropping, becoming icy. He could sense it too. I knew he could. She spoke to me, suddenly, in which he could not hear. 'He is not deserving of your pity.' She was right.

"Why should I help you? You do not deserve my services nor do you even deserve my pity."

He fell silent. "W-what's in that book?"

"Stories. Ideas. My secrets. Strangers' secrets. Nothing for you to know." I looked out upon the water. Time was wearing thin. "I think you should be getting on now," I stated.

"What? No, please, you haven't let me- I just need her gone. I've been told by others that you can take care of situations like this and I can't let this get out. It will ruin me, my business, my family... I'm begging you, I'm desperate."

"You ruined you. Maybe you wouldn't be running into such trouble if you didn't sleep with another woman," I said standing.

Picking up my sandals I started to walk away from the sad excuse for a man sitting on the coarse ground. Before I took three steps he rose and grabbed me by my shoulder, spinning me around to face him.

"PLEASE! How much will it take, huh?" Jonas, struggling with the fabric of his clothing, ripped a brown checkbook from his back pocket.

"I don't do this for money, Jonas-"

"Anyone will do anything so long as you name the right price. So how much will it be? Hm? How about three grand?"

I laughed and turned back to face the land. "Goodnight"

"No? Fine. What about eight!?" I continued walking with his clumsy footing following not far behind mine. "Jesus Christ, LOOK AT ME! Twelve thousand dollars!"

"You pathetic human being. Look at yourself!" I snapped as I turned to look upon him once more. "You're attempting to bribe me with your money to have me get rid of your wife and keep YOUR hands out of the red. Your hands will still be covered in her blood even if I'm the one that pulls the trigger."

"THEN USE A KNIFE!" he screamed.

A deathly haunting silence fell upon the beach and all that remained was the echo of his desperation. The wind ceased and the waves calmed their antagonizing behaviors, more than likely realizing that they had egged him on. He stared at me blankly, the fear in his eyes turning into hostility. He wrote down one final sum to offer.

"Twenty. Thousand. Dollars," he said strongly. Not a crack in his voice. Waving the check around he laughed. "I know how you struggle. I know you don't do this for money, but don't you pretend for one moment that you do this out of a good sense of morality. Murder is not morally sound no matter what the reasoning is behind it. Take the money. At least you will get some sort of personal gain from all of this." I stood in shock. Twenty-thousand dollars could change everything, I thought.

Hesitantly, I stepped forward and snatched the check from his hands. I inspected it making sure it was real. It was. Signed, dated, addressed to my name. I began laughing and cheering with a sense of gratitude and relief I had not felt in years. I could finally be free from this.

"It's a deal then," the man stated relieved. "I have to ask, I don't recall that I introduced myself, yet... you knew my name. How did you know my name?"

Folding the check I looked into his eyes that have become re-energized with a fresh sense of fear.

"You're right," I sighed, "murder is not morally sound."

In an instant, he was lying upon the sand, lifeless. I slid the gun back into the waistband of my pants where it had been waiting all along. There was no more fear, no more anger, and no more desperation behind that man's eyes. Only darkness. Only what he had deserved. And as the sound of the gunshot continued to resonate within the emptiness of the horizon, the black waters flew upon the shore, farther than before. She came to take him. Her victim.

The water touching my toes I opened my small black notebook once more, crossing off the only name that was written on the otherwise blank page.

Jonas Walker

Placing the check securely in between the covers I started walking off towards the land once again. This time, she did not call out to me as I left her behind. She had given me what I needed to fix my life, to provide myself with my own happiness. Without her.

I was set free.