It's days like this he thinks of her.

The rain is sheeting down, trapping the hot stink of the alleyways in summer under a blanket of moisture. The blood that runs into his eye is a sign of distraction, a nick across one eyebrow that narrowly missed being lethal. He is too busy thinking. Parry, slash. Sidestep, kill. Another night. Another death among hundreds.

As the last man dies, he turns in the darkness to look behind him. Almost, she is there. The ghostly imprint he can forever see, the blood of his enemies spattered across her pale face. He wants her to fall. He wants to catch her, one last time.

But she only watches. His killing is not yet done. She waits.

The rain falls.


I have no idea why this popped into my head. I haven't been in a writing mood of late - muses refuse to be inspired, curse them. In actual fact, I don't think I have much business writing anything right now, but I was just sitting here on shift at the club when the first line sneaked into my head and hissed, "Write me!". So I did.

This is the first drabble I ever wrote.