A blanket, soft and warm, with just the faintest hint of her perfume – Dead Deer

Today I wrote from 20:13 to 20:23. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

No real idea at all what I can do with this? The deliberate juxtaposition of the comforting opening with the sense of loss in the second half leaves me, well, lost. Again.

Once again I find myself with no options, stuck and defeated. By this prompt, as in life. What am I doing? Where am I going? Nowhere good, that is for sure. Clinging, clingy, needy and unneeded. What next? Accept I suppose. But it is this element of looming acceptance and clarity that has led me here.

The concept was bad, but when considering it more carefully, the actual reality of it, it is considerably worse than I first envisaged. So, I have agency. Accept it, live with it. Or I can choose what I want. I try. It seems that that choice is in fact closed; no it is open but I would lose, and end up in a worse situation than the one I cannot abide the thought of, the vision of.

I am in circles again, but it feels now more like a spiral. I have spiralled many times, of course, but downwards. Now it feels like it is spiralling outwards, ever outwards. Fifty percent? Twenty percent? Zero. Why? Why, why why should I tolerate this diminishing role.

Because I am, as I have always maintained, optionless, without agency, out-manoeuvred and continually manipulated. Kept in the dark, misled. Stuck. Lost and bewildered whilst all goes on around me, not by me but to me. And the constant imploring to take control, to form my own destiny is nothing but mocking laughter. Cahoots. They are all in cahoots. How can I move? How can I continue? Well, the same chorus tells me how;

“You just have to.”

Dec 5th – A blanket, soft and warm, with just the faintest hint of her perfume.

December 5th – A blanket, soft and warm, with just the faintest hint of her perfume.


We all have to work for a living.

She was lucky, in that she actually enjoyed her work. No, not enjoyed. Loved. She loved her work.

Admittedly, it was unconventional. Highly skilled. Intense, at times, followed by periods of adrenaline crashes and the build-up again, to the next task. Morally questionable.

She had learned early on not to ask questions. Asking questions wasn’t part of the job description. There was no interview. She didn’t pay tax, or have a corporate card. She liked it that way.

Only two or three people ever talked to her about her job. And even that wasn’t really talking. A pre-arranged meeting, a set of instructions, and then she had the autonomy to carry it out in whatever way she saw fit.

And there were many ways.

She was proud of what she did, and the way she did it, even if she could never show it, or speak about it publicly. Her friends, not especially close, but close enough to share a bottle of wine and a bitch about boyfriends, or girlfriends, thought she was in business. She travelled a lot. She would sometimes (but not often) send a postcard.

And now she was working.

She never asked about the target. To her they were always just targets. Who they were didn’t matter. This one lived in an apartment in Prague, a big apartment, on the third floor.

It was easy enough to get in.  She looked the part, smart enough for there, with a briefcase instead of a handbag, and a well-tailored suit. She just slipped in when someone came out, smiled an accented ‘hello’ in neutral, and picked the lock in seconds.

Then she waited.

She didn’t wait long.

Her target was down thirty seconds after the door closed, and dead sixty seconds after that. A small jab with a syringe into the jugular vein, and the liquid did the rest.

Sixty seconds after that she was gone, the short black wig discarded in a rubbish bin several streets away, along with the jacket. The latex gloves, skin toned, went into the river, balled up. The syringe went the same way.

She kept the briefcase with her. It held nothing apart from her souvenir. This one was slightly bigger, but she liked it. It folded up just small enough to be held by the case. A blanket, this time, soft and warm, with just the faintest hint of her perfume.


Inspired by a prompt from here