She's happy without me. Boring with me. Distant. So little affection. I asked for it. Careful what you wish for.


Did you hear the story about the sniper?

His name was Adam Jeffwall. Spent his whole childhood playing sports for his school, travelling during holidays and getting straight As in class. A happy childhood. But it changed. It all changed. In a single night. He just turned 18, his parents had gotten him a brand new car. A nice car, a nice muscle car. The girls he could pick up with that car. Not that he had any trouble picking up girls with his wit and his looks and his brains. No, no problem at all. His problems came from elsewhere. His problem came from that one night. It came from that car of his. His brand new mustang. His happy childhood, lead to him running over his sister. Dead. Instant.

His parents ostracized him. He wasn't drunk, wasnt reckless. His sister had been riding bicycle at night, and suddenly rode it in front of his car. Bang. Dead. Instant. His neighbours looked at him different. His friends, tried to be there, but he looked at them different. Because he looked at himself different. He didn't deserve to have friends. He didn't deserve to have family. He didn't deserve to live. It wasn't the guilt that made him feel this way. It was the lack of it. That night, when he ran over his sister, he felt an adrenaline rush. He felt, alive. Something no sports, no backpacking, not anything, has ever given him. Everything came easy to him. School, sports, girls. Life. It all came too easy.

But this, this was different. The fight against his own morality, was a challenge. A challenge he craved. On his 18th birthday, he became a man.

Without a reason to anyone save himself, he joined the army. That came easily too. He rised up in ranks, in skill. A marksman of the highest standard. Then he dropped out. Without a reason to anyone, save himself.

He had contacts. Old friends who hung out with the bad crowd. No, we're not talking street gangs or drug dealers. We're talking higher level. The ones in suits. The ones every authority in the government wants to nail, but can't. Either because they're elusive, or because the government uses them too. The ones that has international level crime records. No, we're not talking street gangs or drug dealers. Definitely not. These were the group he joined up with. No, not joined up... worked for. No, not really that either. He was freelance. They met his demands. Because this wasn't work for him. This was sport. This, was fun.

A professional hit man. Any target you want. Anyone.

I rambled rambled rambled at 12:37 AM