The man was dead, of that there could be no dispute. Malaya could tell by the glassy stare that was his gaze, seeking deeply into the cracks of the ceiling. The ashen skin that had only just begun to feel cold and clammy to the touch. The still lips that would never again be graced by the warmth of that beautiful thing we call breath.
The .38 caliber hole in his head that gave way to a pool of blood that soaked into his already greasy and disheveled hair (making what was already dark darker) was a dead giveaway as well.
Malaya crept across the room to the desk and shuffled slowly through some of the financial papers; unsure what she was looking for or why she cared. The 25 year old lying on the floor had 10 minutes ago what was a promising future in this world. he could've done a lot of good with his talents, if he had chosen to apply them appropriately. What a waste, Malaya thought to herself.
But hey, this was her job. And it's not like she had shot the wretched soul. He'd done the dirty work himself.
A picture rested on the desk. A picture of the man and a little boy, both smiling and surrounded by the bright lights of a carnival ride. The boy clutched a sticky mess of cotton candy in one hand and the man's arm in another. A balloon had been tied around the boy's wrist so that he wouldn't lose it and have to watch it fly off into the emptiness of the sky. Who was this boy? The man's son? Nephew? Little brother?
Malaya was sure the man would've gotten the boy another balloon if need be. After all, that is what these fragile humans call love, is it not? That is the warmth that fills their otherwise insubstantial hearts and makes them beat.
Malaya turned back to t he heart that would beat no more, and to the cold metal of the Glock clenched in the sweaty grip of a desperate hand. She pressed her own hand to his chest. This was the part that she dreaded the most, but also the part she most desired. Time to get it over with so she could get out of this shithole and clock this one in on her quota.
She closed her eyes and felt the love rushing through her. A warm light flowed from the man's chest into her outstretched hand. She winced as she felt the raw memories invade her consciousness, but fought to keep them funneling into a contained and controlled part of her being.
Heartbreak, laughter, anger, sorrow, and love; all stabbing into her own twisted self. Yet she drank up and relished the flow of the soul as it passed through her into it's waiting cage. All too soon, she had to relax her arm and shut the door to the prison within her so the soul wouldn't overwhelm her while it was being transported. The body on the splintered floor was now empty.
The light grew a little dimmer. Or was it just her?
She stood and, without looking back, left the room. This was her job: to secure the tormented souls and collect them for the big boss. No guilt on her part.
Her work was done here.
And anyway, HE was the one who pulled the trigger.
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