Wrapped in Brown Paper

I'm still writing, just not posting. Here's something new:

"It was the 16^th.

The 16^th meant the 17^th was tomorrow.

The next day after that was the 18^th.

They were the three worst days. They were bad for different reasons though. The 16^th was all dreadful anticipation. I worried. I fretted. I sat and stewed. I bit my nails. I ripped my cuticles until they bled. I also hoped the 16^th would not fall on a weekend. At least a weekday would distract me with work. But weekends were lost to screams in my pillow and wall punches.

The 17^th was work. I would wake up and it was waiting for me. The package was on my doormat. "Welcome". The package was never welcome but always necessary. That package wrapped in brown paper and thread. No markings. Postage implied legality. There couldn't be anything legal about the package. It was immoral, unethical, and vile. But it was necessary. I would bring it in and place it on my coffee table. Then I would place down the bourbon and glass. One drink. I needed a synthesized courage shot to get that package open. I removed the tape and was carefully to never tear the paper. Tearing the paper was disrespectful. I slid out the sheets. The code wasn't cryptic anymore. I was bilingual -- I knew English and the code. I remember early on I left the code out carelessly. My friend picked it up "What is this weird poetry?" "Ha! I got it on the Internet. Right?" No, not right.

It took a couple of hours to get everything prepped. Google maps. Print directions. Go in the garage. Pull out the ladder. Get the bag. Check the tools. Ready to go. The car ride took a while. Careful turns. Never running red lights. Below the speed limit. Piece of cake. Then you pull up the address. House, apartment, office building. Park the car and go to the door. "Hello, my name is Jason Needson. My organization called you about an inspection." They were always pleasant. "Oh yes, come on in." Once I was in, it took about 30 minutes. There were no second chances. If I was in the house, it was already over. Then you leave. "Goodbye."

Back in the car for the trip home. I always had Kanye West for the ride home. Not really. That's a joke. Ya know, to clear the air. You seem a little tense. Sure it was funny. Trust me, I know funny and that is it. Once I got home, it was time for bed. Regardless of the time, I was in bed. Usually the scripts helped. Then the 18^th.

The 18^th was clean up. Tools away. Evidence destroyed. It was done. And I thought I would never get found out. It was just an easy job. I started in college. Some people sell plasma or strip; I kill old people. They were going to die anyway, right? They wanted to die. Some of them tried to tell me they had changed their minds. You can't just change your mind. You've already called me. And I'm finishing the job. Fuck you if you think you can just back out. You deserve to die. You're a waste of space. The world needs less people like you shitheaded quitters. Sometimes families would try to stop me. People who condone such actions are just as guilty. Certain families are scourges on the human race. If the patriarch wants to die, the son is probably as big of a waste as she is. So I put them down. 32 so far.

Soon to be 33 quitters in a cedar box.

Another package on the doorstep.

Another opportunity."