A Pinch of Poison
“It was strange to discover that, even on such an errand as this, discomfort still mattered. It was a wry and irrelevant fact, and obscurely unsettling. There should be a great and terrific dignity on such an errand, the murderer thought. Now you set yourself off, darkly, from other men and women; now you carried death in your hand. In the hand, gripped hard, was death, and in the mind was death and it was strange that when death moved with you all little things did not draw away, abashed by the... dark, fearful majesty of the moment. “I am going out to kill,” the murderer thought. And still there was discomfort, belittling the moment.
The murderer dragged feet through wet, tall grass in the darkness, finding a way with feet and with the hand which did not carry death. Wet bushes slapped and distracted with their small, impotent annoyance. Water sloshed through shoes and garments clung, cold and impeding, around legs. The world dragged at the murderer, as if to hold death back. But death could not be held back; once you have killed you must, if it is needed, kill again.MoreLess
The murderer dragged feet through wet, tall grass in the darkness, finding a way with feet and with the hand which did not carry death. Wet bushes slapped and distracted with their small, impotent annoyance. Water sloshed through shoes and garments clung, cold and impeding, around legs. The world dragged at the murderer, as if to hold death back. But death could not be held back; once you have killed you must, if it is needed, kill again.MoreLess
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