The Farewell

Ray tiptoed up the grated stairway, its grey metallic plates screeching in falsetto screams. Ever so slowly, he opened the door a bit. A tiny gust of wind blew in and again, he shut the opening. He exhaled loudly, preparing himself for the arduous job ahead. Today was the perfect day. Now was the perfect time. The job had to be done.

Foraying into the terrace, he clung onto his guitar case tightly, his knuckles whitened and his countenance wrinkled with anxiety. His Master’s words echoed in his head, “Emotions cloud your judgement. Stay clear; stay focussed.”

Killing was an art – just like painting – and it required patience and precision. The tiled floor was as dry as the desert, with multi-coloured mosaics dotting the wide expanse. On the knee-height, alabaster walls, graffiti was plastered with stray sprays refusing to vanish. He crouched low at the precipice, his Master’s mantra booming in his mind.

Just as the Master had prophesised, it was snowing heavily and the entire landscape was bathed in white. Although it was already six, it hadn’t occurred to the Sun to show itself. No one dared to brave the cold, lest he froze to death. Yet, in the biting cold, Ray heard the buried humming of an Ambassador’s wheels. Fixating his gaze on the salient, polished car, he slowly opened his guitar case. He took out his sniper - scope attached already.

The Ambassador stopped. At first, Ray noticed only the spick-and-span boots. The door opened slightly more and Ray caught a glimpse of a hand dusting even the tiniest speck of dust on the raven-black trousers. The figure half-stood and Ray noticed the bald head with dark clouts of hair on the side. The man rose and his wired spectacles came into view. Along came the furtive eyes, the blue in them dancing left and right, drinking in the surroundings. The beard was shaved and if it was clumsily done, the scope didn’t spot it. A matching blazer and a tie completed the ensemble and now Ray was sure it was him. It was unmistakeably him.

Ray chuckled,” LeJou just walked to his grave,” and once again marvelled at his Master’s powers.

The clammy hands were now gone. The sweat had somehow evaporated and Ray steadied his eye for the shot. His calmness was deadly in those dire times. The Ambassador left LeJou deserted, besides the jungle. LeJou was on his phone, mumbling incoherently. Now was the time. The traitor had to be killed.

Ray’s index finger rested on the trigger, slowly; and with calculated precision, he took aim. A muffled snort and LeJou lay dead on the street, alone. LeJou had died a death worthy of a traitor. He deserved no more. Ray packed up and descended the stairs, until LeJou was lying at his feet.

He bent, and with a victorious smirk, whispered in LeJou’s ear, “Farewell, my friend.”

- Vedatman Sonpal