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Capital Punishment

MischiefMaker · 2007-12-06T10:22:11Z

Prologue “I think you should keep driving, Mr Fitzallan.” The cold voice resounded beside him, followed by the click of the passenger door. Cars were starting to queue behind him, and the man had no choice but to continue driving when the light turned green. She noticed he was sweating as she glanced back to the road before her, mentally readying herself for battle to come. Hoping he didn’t put up a fight, she pulled her hands from her pockets and straightened out her tawny hair. “So?” she said calmly. “Uh.” His Adam’s apple was moving at an alarming rate and she watched as his knuckles whiten upon the steering wheel. He definitely knew who she was. “I believe we’re nearing your house, are we not? Perhaps you should park in the garage today.” She didn’t talk pleasantly, but there were no signs of malice in her cool tones. “I don’t understand. I promise, I-“ “You need to turn right here. Surely you know the way to your own home?” She looked at him then, sharp green eyes having been opened to a world of violence at the young age of seventeen. The man who sat beside Paige Dreyfus, went by the name of George Fitzallan. At forty years of age, he was balding and bulky with crinkles sitting at the corners of each eye. His physical structure was far the opposite of his mental composure; such a pathetic little man, Paige thought. “I’m guessing that you know who I am,” she murmured as she pulled at the leather of her gloves. His knuckles whitened again and he swerved around into the drive of a house, almost hitting the garage door. Paige could hear his breathing; raspy and uneven, just like his heart, she supposed. As it echoed around the car, she waited. He sat, ramrod straight in his seat, clenching onto the steering wheel and Paige thought it wrong to rush him into something of which he would never return from. “Perhaps it’s time you opened the garage door now, George,” she remarked after five minutes of uneven breathing. Her palms were sweating behind the leather of her gloves and she wondered whether it was because of the fabric. “I… I don’t want to. My child-“ He cut himself off as he watched her draw the gun from her bag. The metal glinted shining daggers around the car and it was then that he reached for the car door, panic surging through his veins. “Ah, I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said in a sigh as she studied her reflection in the side mirror, “I’m afraid you’ll have to drive into the garage now.” Nodding towards the now open garage door, she calmly loaded the firearm. He sank back into his seat and obediently drove the car into the garage; he was beginning to sob now, much to the distaste of Paige herself. “I can still… I could go and see him.” The whirring of the garage doors near enough drowned out his tear-filled voice and Paige watched as the hope surged in his eyes. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that, you see, our appointment was actually for yesterday.” She said this with such simplicity as she began to raise the silencer of the Magnum to his trembling temple. He moved back and Paige wondered if this was the point where he was going to fight back, but all he did was press himself up against the car door. There was that Adams apple; bobbing like a buoy out at sea. She pressed the ice cold metal to his temple and, just before he tried to reach out to her, pulled the trigger. The shot echoed around the garage but reverberated off the door, calming after several minutes. She sat in the car, staring at the remains of his receding hairline, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. A whimper cut through the silence and Paige gasped a little, spinning around to the backseat to find a small child, about the age of five, trembling in the foot space of the seat. Her face paled as she glanced to the lifeless body of George Fitzallan beside her, then to the child. It was too late; she couldn’t let anyone find out, he was a witness. Loading the Magnum with her spare bullet – she never missed a shot – she took a breath and placed the metal against his forehead. She couldn’t let anyone know; she couldn’t. Paige sat up bolt right, the bed covers bunched around her ankles, sweat soaking through her vest top. Her hair was plastered to her forehead as she glanced at the red figures of the alarm clock; 4am. The sound of the bullets still rang in her ears; it had been a long time.

Phantom369

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Points 890

Reviews 1

Tue May 06, 2008 10:08 pm

Phantom369 says... · Tue May 06, 2008 10:08 pm

This was an excellent beginning to something I feel has a lot of potential. First of all, I love you already because you stray from the usual, boring descriptions that so many (myself included) lay down, about what the people are like in the first paragraph. This defines a character by actions, and gives them depth by adding in the hint of regret the assassin (?) has for her past actions. Great stuff, keep it up!

Quote

Now I realize that there is no righteous path, it’s just people trying to do their best in a world where it is far too easy to do your worst.
— Castiel

Capital Punishment

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