The Good Life

 The Good Life

From where he was lying on the roof, Ballard saw a glimmer of light coming from her bedroom. In any event, it should be longer than 500 feet: calming winds and a star-filled sky. The conditions were ideal for making the shot. This was the inevitable result. He heaved a sigh and raised the spyglass he'd stolen from the dead Swiss guard a year before. What was the body count? Dozens?

 

There were three of them; Ballard was close enough to the Swiss guard who had fallen for him to hear him scream, "Mama." Of course, war is hell. To put it bluntly, this action amounted to murder. Why wasn't it like any other murder you've heard of?

 

He trembled as he held the spyglass. Stop calling it "murder," Ballard. The way you're aiming, you'll never score. He inhaled deeply before each salvo, as he had been taught. Relieves stress and relaxes the mind.

 

His grip steadied, and he brought the spyglass up to his eye. He focused on it till he could make out every strand of lace on the bed's canopy as the breeze rustled it and gazed out the window. The place was deserted.

 

The sheriff had said, "What, though? Infrequently, she would enjoy a glass of wine in the kitchen before turning in for the night. Indeed, she's at that location.

 

He would have to wait. At that moment, it felt like we were at war. You waited and finally saw the glint of spears over the crest of a hill. Because of the shiny protective headgear. Listen to the thump of plated boots and the snap of sigils in the breeze.

 

He grabbed the wooden container that housed his bolts, opened it, and felt the long, thin piece of wood in his hand. Last chance. He was satisfied with that. Then I'd be free. The only way to freedom is to kill the woman. The sheriff rewarded him with a sum that would have bought him passage to England or the New World. It's like a fresh start; it's a promise of life. Ultimately, death leads to release.

 

He nocked the bolt to make such long shots and mounted the spyglass on notches he carved into the bow. His ears started to ring as he lay there, staring through the window once more. His head shook. No matter what, they continued to ring. At that point, "I see you." An intimate whisper, a female voice. He felt his heart pounding. He drew a long, deep breath and turned around. Nothing but blackness. "Return to the window," the voice said.

 

This was an audible voice in his mind. Words spoken by a female Perhaps a demon was to blame. He'd witnessed demon-possessed madmen ranting about voices in their minds while priests dragged them off to prison in shackles. Because of all the lives he had taken, he deserved this. Not a punishment at all. Avert your gaze from the glass.

 

He stared at the window as though compelled by the evil force now possessed him. Now there was a human figure standing there, half-hidden in the shadows. That would be a female.

 

Then, "See?" the voice exclaimed. It's not like I'm a devil or something.

 

A monster, he told himself, would never say such a thing. The man's hands trembled. Of course, only a rational man would realize this.

 

His finger rested on the tickler as he raised the bow and gazed through the spyglass.

 

Is this something you intend to accomplish for real, Owen? His true identity could only be known by a demon or his three-year-long lover, Francesca. A muscle in his finger tightened as he resisted the tickler. One of the most beautiful demons I've ever seen was a tall, thin, blonde woman with a cut over one eye.

 

"Owen, how long have we been friends? Okay, I assume I won't try to stop you from doing this. It's up to you to do it. It's your responsibility. If that's what you want to do, Keep your eyes on me, Owen.

 

The spyglass was focused on her face as he panned in closer. As you can see, the bruise is dark blue and looks dreadful. Evil spirits don't get cuts. The appearance of a demon is not appealing. Ballard recognized the true antagonist. He was the one who had done this to her and wanted her to die.

 

Do you seriously think I want this life? The possibility exists that I intend for you to carry it out. Maybe I'm where you are and want everything to be over. The suffering, the loss. Isn't that what you seek, Owen? So that it's finally over? "

 

"It's not what I want," he said out loud.

 

"You want peace," she told him. Let me be the one to bring you calm. Of course, you are aware of this.

 

He pictured himself spending the rest of his life with her. They would be an improvement over her current situation.

 

She said, "You and I would have a wonderful life together."

 

"I know."

 

The arrow went right through her heart. She crumpled to the floor in defeat.

 

He had imagined good life, and it was no longer possible. He slung his crossbow over his shoulder, turned, and descended the roof, heading towards the shadowy city streets below.

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