Water swirled in the rusted bathtub, cascading down its walls with a warmth akin to late-night tears.

Lucie’s slender fingers trailed through the surface of the water with an air of utmost nonchalance; a pair of spindly claws leaving only nail polish and the taste of aged wine in their wake. With her free hand, the woman lifted a cigarette to her cardinal-red lips, inhaling slowly, and exhaling in rhythm with the tears welling in her eyes. She told herself calmly, as she'd told herself many nights before, that they were not tears of sadness. Any emotion can provoke tears, she reminded herself, even emotions one has yet to come to terms with. Lucie had many things to come to terms with, as well as many things she longed desperately to forget before she could understand.

A hazy ring of smoke framed her painted lips, dispersing more quickly than it had arrived. Smoking was forbidden in Lucie’s apartment complex, or rather it had been, when people lived there. Now it was only Lucie and the bareness of her yellowing wallpaper, the coolness of the draft, but most persistently, the murky water swirling in the bathtub. They were all simple pleasures, nothing more, but pleasures nonetheless and frankly all Lucie required to live in comfort.

Her high-heeled shoes fell to the floor with a vociferous clamor that reverberated off every wall. She plucked petals from a pair of withering roses in the translucent vase perched at the window-sill, scattering them through the warm water as though throwing bread crumbs to a cluster of pigeons. She pursed her lips languidly at her own mockery of grandeur, lowering her legs into the rusty water. She pulled a damp washcloth over her eyes, tilting her head backward. Her chin rose up toward the crumbled plaster of her ceiling, and a smile played at her lips--a smile so mottled with pain and remorse that it seemed hardly a smile at all, and only a twisted grimace clothed in smeared, stolen lipstick.

The mockery of grandeur; that's all her life was now-- a foolish, deceitful game with no intentions of betraying vulnerability. The tears continued to well in her eyes, building and rolling and disappearing into the bathwater.

Perhaps they were tears of sadness, but not even a gun to her forehead would prompt Lucie to admit it.

___________________________

Darkness fell across Lucie's flat as the sun stooped below the horizon.

Neon storefront lights flickered to life, buzzing persistently just beyond her bathroom window. Lipstick wasn't the only valuable Lucie had stolen in her recent years, and the number of glaring neon signs strewn throughout her living space served as proof. She'd taken to propping her favorites around the bare mattress she slept on each night; the silken sheets she'd once draped across the mattress' stained surface now lay at the bottom of the apartment garage, soaked with someone else's blood. Many of Lucie's belongings ended up this way, but it was a misfortune she perceived as merely an occupational hazard.

The bathwater was drained momentarily, and Lucie reached for the bathrobe draped across the radiator. Cloaked in a fluffy, faded display of ostentation, she felt akin to royalty as she strode to the living room.

Archaic lamps bearing odd patterns on their lampshades sat strewn across the floor, some nestled between tall piles of books Lucie had never read. She hadn't read a book in years, but fancied to think of herself as someone who might read someday. If, perhaps, her future allowed enough spare time to indulge in such an authentic pleasure. Lucie had found herself considerably busy with work as of late; she thrived when common folk plummeted, as such was the nature of her work.

Sprawled across the mattress, Lucie shut her eyes against the lamps, the withered rose petals, and the soft, incessant drone of the neon lights. And as her consciousness fell away into the night, she felt as though some part of her was joining them-- her clients-- in the strange place they must dwell now that she'd done business with them. In the cold and the darkness, and the whole-hearted nothingness-- the place that scared her into a dreamless slumber for hours until morning.

For such is the toil of an assassin, regardless of her beauty. She was a hitman, an executioner.

A spoiled murderer living out a deceitfully sophisticated lie.

“Lucie, don't do this, please…”

Broken glass littered the kitchen floor, the pungent smell of blood lingered heavily in the air. Lucie’s vision swam as she fought the urge to black out; it was becoming too much, she'd thought it would've been easier, but it was too much. Her mother's hand extended, sweeping past splintered dishes and chairs. Tears crawled to her chin. Lucie forced herself to look away; things couldn't go back to the way they'd been. Not now, not after this. Her mother cried out, Lucie turned on her heel and stormed off in the opposite direction. She had no choice but to leave it all behind, she couldn't have stayed-- not after everything she'd done. She was an evil girl, so terribly, disgustingly wicked.

And as her pleading screams rang out in the darkness, Lucie told herself it was all her mother's fault.

_________________________

The following morning began the same way many of Lucie's mornings did, with a tinny yet familiar voice crackling to life on her answering machine.

Half-empty wine bottles concealed the caller ID from view, but she knew who it was; it was the same nameless voice that had stirred her awake for the past six months. Lucie absently tossed her auburn hair with one hand, awaiting her weekly instructions.

"I have three names for you, Landrow. You have 48 hours."

Lucie rested her chin on one hand, pallid fingers abreast of her jaw as she struggled to keep herself from being lulled into another half-slumber. A usual workload constituted a minimum of four victims per day. Bitterness rose up in her throat as she entertained the fleeting thought that her employers were losing faith in her, but she knew very well that such would never be the case. Even in the earliest days of her professional life, she received tempestuous praise on the skill with which she executed each task; how she puzzled her employers with her promptness, her eagerness, and the purely inhumane traits that allowed her to effectuate her work with ease.

Lucie knew very well that she was commonly perceived as a wickedly useful freak of nature, virtually void of any characteristic that would complicate the task of murder. And to put it simply, murder had never been complicated for Lucie. It was only the swish of a blade, the flick of a switch, the deft placement of a bullet or two. It was dirty work she made certain to carry out in only the most elegant manner-- such was her trademark, her calling card, and the idiosyncrasy that had moved her employers so much as to label her evil. The word always sent a strange, sick feeling rattling through her chest, but it was a feeling the taste of tea and cigarettes could diminish just as easily as any other adversed sensation. It was only very rarely that the word was spoken directly to her face; it had long since been predetermined that frequent encounters with her employers would be unsafe. Keeping to herself most of the time was bound to avert suspicion, and though she was entirely the opposite of a vigilante, it had gone without saying that staving off attention from locals would permit her a conventional social life. The notion always brought remnants of a smile to her pursed, delicate lips. Her life was not normal in any sense of the word, but she liked to think that such was the case for every human being, regardless of whether they committed mass murder on the daily.