A Cold Day

(Sometimes, the things that bother me the most are the things that don’t bother me.) The thought nagged her again as it often did on days like this. She sat forward in the plain wooden chair, resting her chin against her hands on the window sill, her breath fogging the icy glass pane with every exhalation.

Between breaths the condensation would clear a little, and she could look down upon the activity in the busy square from her third storey window. It was a cold and dreary day, and the square was a dull tapestry of overcoats, mittens and woollen hats. The forbidding grey sky had somehow stolen any colours which might otherwise have existed. A day for inside. A day for introspection.

(The children will be home from school soon. Maybe before me at this rate. What’s keeping him, I wonder?) The glass fogged up again as she tried unsuccessfully to change the subject.

(The things that don’t bother me: People I’ve never met who are starving, children around the world dying, disease, poverty and malnutrition. These are the things that don’t bother me. If the state of the world did bother me, surely I would not hesitate to donate as much money as I could to improve the lot of others. But I don’t, do I. Nobody does. Home comforts are always more important. A new couch, a new car, a television. Our own comfort is always placed before the survival of people we’ve never met.)

(Of course if it was a friend or relative who was suffering, I would not hesitate to do all I could for them. Congratulations, that’s quite a double standard you’ve got there.)

(Some people occasionally give insignificant wee donations, mainly through guilt. It makes them feel a little better. But don’t be fooled. The suffering of the world doesn’t bother them. They do it for themselves - to make themselves feel better, not others.)

She interrupted her thoughts for a second to scan the square below. People walked to and fro, anonymous faces, turned up collars, hands buried deep in pockets.

She inhaled deeply then exhaled in a slow, steady and well-practised fashion which blotted the square from view.

It was these nagging thoughts which had caused her to conduct some critical self-analysis, after which she was finally able to come clean with herself. To be honest. It was initially frightening. The distant deaths, floods, wars, plagues and assassinations did not bother her. She watched it all on the news like everyone else, consumed it with her dinner every night. Another nightly instalment of human drama just in case you missed the mid-afternoon soap operas. Callous maybe, but the naked truth nevertheless. Seldom had she been prompted to give more than some insignificant donation - then it was back to planning the Christmas vacation or tomorrow’s shopping expedition.

She once had a dog which died, and she had cried. That was the hypocrisy and truth of human nature. The truth. (The truth about humans is that the value of life, the world and everything is judged relative to their emotions - by personal involvement and how well they know the person-victim-child-dog. Sorry, if you are not a friend or relative you miss out.)

Down in the square, a businessman was talking into a mobile phone. His breath condensed before him and he glanced around at the surrounding buildings as he spoke. Looking for something?

(In many of the world’s largest cities, people drive to work in their Mercedes Benzes - no wait, let’s not let the Toyota drivers off the hook either - and as they cruise to their air-conditioned offices, they pass blindly by the world’s most appalling slums. Shacks which are barely standing. People starve there and children have no future.)

(The only condition necessary for suffering to occur is for good people to do nothing. And the shocking thing is that it is human nature to do just that. Nothing. Just eat your dinner and watch it on TV. You might as well be pulling the trigger.)

(But hang on. Let’s not go crusading here on our high moral horse. What are we supposed to do? Give away all of our possessions and money to help others? A few do. But most would be genuinely miserable without their comforts. Here’s the truth of it: you can’t fight human nature. You can’t make people care. The best you can do is be honest with yourself and be comfortable with being human. Knowing that you don’t care and understanding why. Be kind to the ones you love. Help others when you can - but only do it if you care. Don’t give some ridiculously insignificant donation which only serves to make yourself feel better. That is the worst possible thing - to lie to yourself.) She sometimes thought that if she wasn’t doing this job for a living, she would like to devote her life to helping people. Sell her possessions and genuinely care. Work abroad with the Red Cross or something. But until then, she would accept and live with her human nature.

Down below she could now see a group of five men enter the square. As they walked briskly in line abreast, others in front of them showed signs of recognition and promptly moved out of the way. Turning back inside the room, she reached for her navy-blue overcoat lying on the floor.

(But there’s always that nagging guilt, isn’t there. The things that bother you about being human, even when you think you’ve come to accept it.) She wasn’t religious, but she imagined that doing this job might be a bit like the many Catholics who use contraceptives: (the human conscience which knows what is right, is never quite left in peace by that ingrained and conditioned guilt.)

She pulled away her overcoat and collected up the high-powered sniper rifle which had been hidden beneath it.

Upon opening the window her eyes stung a little bit as the cold rushed in. Once again she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, deliberately. The breathing was everything. The line of five men were nearing the center of the square now. The grey-headed figure in the middle was clearly recognisable from the black-and-white photographs she had been provided with. The men on either side would be bodyguards and aides.

She rested the rifle firmly upon the sill of the open window and concentrated through the telescopic sight.

A deep breath in. Exhale slowly, steadily. NOW.

CRACK. CRACK.

The rifle jerked slightly as two rounds flew to their target. Through the sight, she could see them both hit their mark. One in the chest, the other in the neck. The grey haired man fell backwards to the cobbled pavement, clutching desperately at his neck. His eyes grew wider as his feet kicked and his body writhed in agony. Already, a large pool of blood was gathering around him.

She turned away. There was no need to watch the rest. It had been a good shot. He would not survive.

With professional speed, she closed the window, threw on her overcoat and made for the stairs. She hurried down, two steps at a time then paused at the fire exit door to button up her coat, ensuring the rifle was well hidden beneath.

(Yes, sometimes the things that bother me the most are the things that don’t bother me.)

She pushed open the door and hurried outside into the chilling cold.

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