The Witching Hour

TripAdvisor

The sun
Had long ago set,
The darkness
Wrapped around me
Like a light blanket
And the moon,
Barely a sliver,
Watched as I sat.

I was perched
On the roof of
A building in Rio,

The mark lived
In the building
Across the road.

Day Three of surveillance.
Last day of surveillance.
They wanted the mark dead,
Tomorrow, the latest.

As I leaned in
To look through the scope,
I felt cold metal
Press against my temple.

I waited.

Seconds turned into minutes,
And I was still alive.
Not good,
They wanted information,
One way or another.

I hazarded a look
At the person
Who would kill me
Before the sun rises.

She was beautiful,
The kind of beautiful
Brazil was known for,
But her eyes.

Her eyes were colder
Than the dark side of the moon.
The mark.

As babies were being
Tucked into bed,
As couples made love,
As an old man reached across
To the empty space
Where his wife used to sleep,
Two killers waited.

If I killed her,
I would be a little richer,
If she killed me,
She would have bought
A couple more days
To live.

And so we waited.

She waited for me
To make a move
To give her a reason
To kill me in self defense.

I waited for
The gun to grow heavy,
For her patience to run out,
For fatigue to weigh down
The lids of her cold eyes.

It was the witching hour
When the gun slipped
A millimeter along my temple.

It was the witching hour
When I slapped the gun away,
And with less mercy
Than she would have shown me,
I snapped her neck.

As the sun rose,
I tucked the beautiful Brazilian
In her bed.
Let her sleep till they come
Looking for her
And find her dead.

In the witching hour,
I became richer,
And the beautiful mark
Ran out of time.

The contract was completed.

God, forgive me,
For I have sinned