The assasin

Stood, motionless, lifeless so he won't see him. His devilish shadow scurries into the bathroom. His reason for killing no-one would understand or even realise. In his mind, justice would be done. His sniper on his back, leather gloves on his hands. his eyes gleaming with confidence, but his sweaty, clammy hands tell a different story.
The house is cold, a breeze blows through bathroom window. The hall is dark, red wallpaper covers the damp walls. The victims house is uncared for, the scruffy, old, warped furniture placed carefully by the chimney breast in the bedroom.
The black, powerful mercedes misses the drive and knocks over the garden knomes, smashing them with the wheels. A screeching halt, then a car door bang. They key misses the lock five times. The assasin jumps into the bath and crouches.
He can hear his victims drunken footsteps,his stumbling haphazard paces. He walks past the bathroom oblivious to his soon to be killer. The bed covers russle. Overwhelming thoughts and what ifs fills his head. The lights go out. It is time. The assasin steps out the bath onto the damp floor. His sniper ready. He walks round the corner, stands in the doorway and pulls the trigger. The victim lies silent.
He walks to pick his cartritges and then to the bathroom and climbs out the window. he walks down the garden path onto the road. In a couple of minutes the police would speed down the road and the assasin would be gone without a trace. The victim killed his daughter and justice had been done.
THE END!