Achluophobia

The streets were being poured in with heavy rain, the halogen street lamps caused a blurred image of the world on the water, ripples devouring each other. The winds were not silent it gushed through the lanes tilting the rain with it, although there was no thunder the sky looked perfectly red. A shadowy figure flickered on the water near the dull red pavement. He stood there drenching in the rain, looking at the sky. His shirt was wet and heavy, his hair dripping fast with water droplets, he was silent, everything his eyes could see was blurred and dim. He rubbed of the water from his wrist-watch and started walking wearily towards his house. He ascended the flight of stairs, dimly lit yellow light shone with insects fluttering across it. He turned the key, the door creaked while opening and outside gushed a known darkness, a darkness he only saw when he did not dream. He pulled the gun out of his coat’s holster and kept it on the table with a thud. A perfect assassin he was, they called him “The Huntsman” as he was ruthless, once he took up a job he did it for sure, nothing stopped him nothing! They said he could see in the darkness and his eyes had the glow of Lucifer himself. He sat down now on his musky smelling sofa with his hands resting on his chin. Darkness poured in from all directions, the sound of heavy pouring was the only thing that was speaking in his ears. He shivered , he felt goose bumps on his facial hair. He was experiencing what he had never felt in his life. Fear engulfed him, his breath was burning with fire as adrenaline pumped into his blood. He would often wake up from a dream in which he was drowning in a pool of blood, the blood of all the people he had slain, but this was no dream. What would they say, “The Huntsman” fears, arteries in his head was throbbing twice every second, his eyes were not wet in shock but in disbelief of his senses. Earlier that evening, he was on a job. The victim as usual was closely followed as he took the subway. The gun was ready with the silencer only the trigger needed to be pulled. The target walked into the bathroom, old tube lights were flickering unnecessarily, it was pungent smelling and dirty, the floor was slippery. As the man approached the wash basin there was a tap on his back, there he was with the gun firmly held and a smile that always curled before he did it every time. But then suddenly he saw something, he panicked and before the victim could scream he pulled the trigger, smashing the mirror behind. The victim pushed him and scrambled out shouting for help. When they came back he had vanished in thin air. He got up from his sofa slowly, his hands were shaking, he grabbed his pistol from the table and walked towards the bathroom. Before he switched on the light he held his breath. Then he saw it again on the wall, a man was standing in the mirror pointing a gun at him, his eyes were tender not as his own, his unshaved cheeks had grays in specks, the forehead had wrinkles. In his own reflection he saw his father, and he suddenly realized something someone told him ages ago , ‘A man knows he is growing old, as he begins to look like his father’.
The End

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