Literary Hangover - Hit/Red

Hitmen like to hit people. On the surface, it doesn't sound like a terribly difficult job. Of course, I grew up with a rather glamorized view of this dirty profession. I imagined strong men in clean suits doing the dirty work for good people caught in a bad system.

It doesn't work like that in reality. I'm a very, very dirty man, with so much blood on my hands. I've got scars all over my body, and I don't think I've ever worn a suit since my first kill. I hate myself, now.

The man hit her. He drew his fist back, pulling it high into the air, and with a sickening whoosh and a deadened thud flesh met flesh, and she fell back on the floor, leaving a sheet of beautiful scarlet hanging in the air for just a single moment.

I was in the closet, watching the whole thing. My eyes were wide, and I missed nothing. I remember my mom looking like a fountain, or perhaps a geyser, spraying beautiful red water into the air, a delicate mist that painted my kitchen shades of the same color. I cried blue, when the man left, my blue mixing with her red, washing it away. That surprised me. Blue and red is supposed to make another color. But instead, it took it away.