Purple Truths

By Andrea Miccaver

Written for an OWG's challenge in which we were given the starting sentence, an object, and a color.

"I killed someone today." Those words didn't seem odd despite the fact that I was in a mansion bigger than most public schools.

"About time." My brother's voice was slightly distorted and static filled. Cell phone reception out here was sporadic.

"Times are tough. Give me a break." I eyed a bowl of apples that were sitting on the dining room table.

"Sarah, times are always tough. You just have to get tougher."

That's what Carl always said after we'd done something that wasn't exactly . . . legal. Whether stealing candy when we were seven or this latest job of ours.

"Any tougher and I'll be able to headbutt a rhino."

He laughed. "Don't forget to get the horn when you're done. I hear those things are worth a fortune." I didn't laugh with him. "Do you need help?"

My eyes went from the apples on the table to the body under it. "No."

"Then why did you call?"

Because you're my brother. Because I wanted to hear a human voice to remind me that I am--despite all that I do--still human. I didn't say any of that out loud of course. "Can you pick up the drop? This one took longer than I thought and I won't make it in time."

"Sure thing."

There was a pause in which I visualized the park bench where a backpack filled with bills would be left in an hour. As clearly as I could see the apples, I saw Carl walk casually over to the backpack and pick it up. He opened it and pulled out a few packets of bills. It was the price for asking my brother to do me a favor.

"Okay."

I turned off my cell phone without saying another word. None were needed. In that moment of visualization, everything had already been worked out. That's how it had been since we were babies, that's how it would be after we died.

The sun was setting now. I walked over to the body under the table. There was a pool of blood under its head. The body was female woman--young, blond, and rich. Her even richer husband had quietly asked around for a hitman after she'd asked for a divorce.

Divorce settlements were so messy these days.

As I was picking up the tools of my trade, the sun went behind a building and the world in front of me was consumed by a purple light. I shrank back involuntarily. I'm not superstitious, I usually just stick to my work and try as hard as I can not to think. But tonight . . . tonight my thoughts would not lay still. They insisted on taking form and showing me--

Life. Those that I had taken. Those that I had ruined. And mixed through out . . . my own.

Slowly the purple light faded. I scrubbed my face with my sleeve to clean my tears. Now was not a good time to break down. As quickly as I could, I finished with the Joneses, grabbed my things and left.

It sucks to be a killer with a conscious.