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The Friday Flash – A Mother’s Love – Friday Flash Fiction

Vengeance consumed him, twisting around his mind and soul like the enrapturement of love-struck serpents or the DNA double helix.

He loved the exhilarating enlightenment of pure hatred, hate that could run either hot or cold, just as you or I would turn a tap on or off. Something that could be all consuming fire or manifest as an flash frozen long term strategy; a dish not only best served cold but a platinum plate of oysters served on ice, consumed before they awoke from their partly frozen lethargy.

Vengeance or vendetta, it mattered not which. Revenge was his leitmotif of love and lust. It was something that he would seek out, need to create to give his life the conceit of meaning, the quickening of the pulse, the desire to achieve and to act.

It was just another chapter in his day job. He adored these gigs as he didn’t have to choose anyone or make a decision. All this was decided by his handler and so he was happily infantilized by not having to make that decision. Everything played in his comfort zone as he moved relentlessly and implacably towards his target.

Tonight he would once more abandon himself to chaos and chance, the ambiguity of whether his proposed victim was the right one. But now, thankfully, all those decisions had been taken for him.

Therefore his confidence bred carelessness and contempt. Lacking choice had made him lazy as he worked through his routine, like a sleepwalker barely conscious of his actions and motives.

Moving towards her, he almost yawned as his mind flicked through the three options of garrotte, knife or the gun with the bespoke silencer. She lay there caught in her slumbers, and he almost wondered what reveries flitted through her mind before her life, so quickly granted and so briefly taken, would end.

There was something about her that captured his attention as he got closer. He could hear the lightness of her snoring, perceptible but quite delicate. He was entranced by the faint neon light from the window as it seemed to dance on the ends of her blonde hair. The cream silk sheet covered her shoulder and he could just make out the exquisite detailing of the tattoo. What was it, the claw of a scorpion maybe?

So enraptured with her was he that he did not notice the presence of another person in the room. An older woman, who now stealthily approached him from behind with a hypodermic in her hand.  As he reached to lift the sheet he paused to admire the vision before him. He gazed awestruck as the hypodermic found the raised vein in his neck. Once again, Lydia had protected her daughter from those who meant to harm her.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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