The Blooded Rose

I moved through the shadows of the mansion furtively, tracing my gloved fingers along the walls, leaving traces of the white invisible ink that I had placed on my hands earlier, not wanting to lose my way through the maze of the dark halls. My target was asleep, I knew. I had spent the last month observing his routine, his weaknesses, and his strengths. The way he walks, the way he talks, what he did at night, in the morning and throughout the day. I think back on the days when he would come to his home, shaking his head. He talked to me quite often, being the lonely man that he was; especially after his wife had come to her death by none other than the Blooded Rose.
"Hey, Adri."
I looked up from the couch in the den, that happened to be right next to the front door, where I pretended to do homework.
"Hey."
"Do you ever get the feeling that you're being watched? But when you turn around and see that nothings there, you start to think you're going crazy?"
I shook my head. "No, sir."
"Huh..." he shook his head and walked upstairs, where he took his shower before starting dinner.
Of course, he was being watched, but the fool didn't need to know that. He especially didn't need to know that it was I whom was watching him the entire time. That's what I do. I always observed my targets before I took them down. There were lesser surprises that way. I looked around the corner to see my target's bedroom door, slightly open as always. I double checked the opposite end of the hallway, to make sure that he didn't start sleep walking again. One time, I caught him sleep walking, but all he did was roam the halls, before he went back to his room and went back to sleep. I listened through the slight opening to hear even breaths and the occasional snore as always.
I carefully opened the door so that not even the slightest squeak would give out of the old, rustic hinges. Walking over, rather surreptitiously, I pulled out my dagger from my thigh sheath, twisting the blade making it glimmer in the moonlight that lit up the room through the half-opened curtains of the window. The blade was roughly 8 inches long, the blade curved to a sharp point, with a white boned handle, with roses and vines of sharp thorns carved into the bone, the petals stained with blood. I stood over my target. I took the pillow next to him and covered his face to hide the effortless gurgled screams that came as I lacerated his throat with my dagger, now glistening with his blood. My target was killed.




Target. I never bothered to remember their names. I was always told not to. We were always taught that names were a one-way ticket to gaining an attachment, which only made our targets harder to kill. It's a good thing that my target never bothered to notice that I didn't say his name. It would've hurt his feelings if I had to tell him that I never remembered it. Good thing I never cared about feelings