Paranoia

The sharp metallic scent of blood permeated the air.

He could hear the shrieks and cries from the bar even as he was running away, as fast as he could.

What if people were following?
What if they saw?

You'd think that even after three years he'd be fine with this or he'd be used to this.

God, but the fear that someone would catch him didn't ever leave him. Running, running, he was used to that.

Adrenaline was running through his veins and he could hear his heart thumping, thumping, thumping but not because of the kill.

He was used to that at least. Well, as used to it as you could be, I guess.

(At least the pay was good...)

Kenshi could hear his footsteps pound hard against the stone pavement and he could feel the blood rushing in his head. All he could think of was getting away, getting to safety.

All it took was a perfected flick of his wrist, a sharp movement with his trusty knife to deliver the death blow and his alcohol soaked target was gone.

The stench of spirits and beer was so strong in the bar. Broken glass had littered the creaky wooden floorboards as the shocked gasps and screams of patrons pierced the air. He needed to go, running out the door hoping that no one noticed.

God, he hoped no one noticed.

No one would, no one would. Not if he got away now. And he was running, running, running. His breath was ragged and he could only focus on getting away as soon as he could.

Where was he now? He was far away now, he couldn't hear the cries.

His hands were slick with his target's drying blood. His knife was coated with the stuff too, and Kenshi would end up having to scrape it off with his sharp fingernails. That was alright, that was okay. As long as he didn't get caught.

As long as he didn't get caught, that'd be fine for now.

He was running, running back to a little poky apartment he'd rented. There was no use in settling down. (He'd be caught...) He'd be moving on after his kill. Just like he always did. He'd rinse the blood from his knife (as best as he could), scrub the scent from his hands and call his dear mother on his throwaway pre-pay phone.

He so needed to hear her voice right now.

He wanted to call her every night, to reassure himself she was okay. To reassure her that he was okay. Kenshi couldn't imagine how she felt. Her own son was on the run! Her own son was in so much danger. But she trusted him. She loved him. She supported him.

Still. It must be difficult.

He kept her close to him all this time. A photograph inside a locket he kept close to his heart. The locket was full of tiny photos of people who meant the most to him. His mother, some friends...

He didn't have his father, though. He wondered how he was. He missed him a lot.

They didn't talk anymore, and it was hard for Kenshi, but he was too scared. What if someone tapped into his phone? What if someone else was listening? They could catch him, they could do something to Kenshi-

He'd never risk it.

Finally, finally he arrived at his tiny apartment. Nobody noticed him slip up the stairs from the lobby or when he crept into his home. No one was there, it was just Kenshi.

Thankfully.

He sighed with relief as he shut the door tightly and flicked on the lights, illuminating the room in pale yellow. 

But it wasn't time to relax yet. He had to wash away the evidence. He would completely detach himself from the killing. He knew how to do that, it'd be fine.

Then he could call his mother.

Then he could finally breathe.