The bodies of my victims, messily stacked in a plastic bucket, stare up at me accusingly. Or they would, if they had eyes. But their sense of disapproval is conveyed anyway.
“Sorry,” I say, as I dump them in the backyard pile with the rest. “I wouldn’t be doing it if I wasn’t getting paid.”
Of course, that might make it even worse. I’m a contract killer. And I didn’t even HL in murder. (For the record, I didn’t SL in it either. I don’t believe my high school offers that. The district’s strapped for money. The practice weapons are just too pricey.)
As I execute more of my targets, I can’t help wincing. Once, I even mutter “Sorry” before I can stop myself.
I am probably the only person in the world who feels guilty for weeding.
I will now listen to the sighs of relief as any relatives reading this comprehend that I am not, after all, a vicious killer. No. If my attitude towards a typical gardening task is any indication, I would be the worst contract killer in the world. I would probably creep in, hold my weapon above the sleeping target… and then collapse to the floor sobbing uncontrollably, begging the confused would-be victim for forgiveness.
I mean, who feels bad for weeding? I’ve always been a tree hugger, but this is ridiculous. Next I’ll feel bad for walking on grass. Will you believe I’m not even a vegetarian? Interrogators wouldn’t break me by torture – they’d just snap flower stalks and I’d give in.
I began this post hoping for an answer, some explanation as to why I’m totally nuts. But now I’ve decided that’s just the thing. I am totally nuts. It explains everything.
Now excuse me while I go sob over the compost pile.