Wandering the streets. Again.

It was raining. I'd walked there, getting considerably drenched in the process. It's weird…Some parts of the night stick clearly in my mind. Like I said, it was raining, and I could hear the water hitting the pavement. I was nearing the ugly apartment block, where the fucking son-of-a-bitch lived.

He ducked into a store, buying a pack of cigarettes, and glancing at the headlines of a paper.

Other parts are not as clear. I remember riding the elevator to the eighth floor. I remember my exact thoughts from that elevator carriage. I also remember placing the gun in my inside coat pocket before leaving. What I don't remember is what I did when I got there.

The rain drops started falling on him. Hitting his shoulders, hair, and hands. He raised his head, looking straight up towards the sky.

Did I kick the door in? Yes. I think I did. I broke his nose…Maybe. By the time I'd produced my gun, I thought he might be already dead. I'd hit him hard, maybe forcing the bone up into his brain.

He looked around. Everyone had their umbrellas up. Black umbrellas. The taxi's past him in the road, and tourists, business men and women pushed past the green eyed, brown haired, immobile teenager on the path.

I stood over him. My hands were shaking, and I held the gun in both hands. It was my fathers gun. He'd given it too me before kicking me out the house. Bastard.

Someone stopped to ask if he was okay. He ignored them.

He was begging now that I think about it. Desperately pleading for his life. I found it pathetic. After what he'd done, he deserved everything he got. I aimed the gun? Yes. Yes I did.

The person who stopped to ask was still standing there, bewildered. He shook the person off, and continued to walk, quickening his pace.

Then what? More pleading. I can hear his words ringing through my ears even now. I told him to shut up. He did so. The gun was pointing straight at his head. I fired one shot.

He stopped walking.

Another shot. Into his body, piercing through the skin with ease.

Someone passed him on the sidewalk, taking his newly bought cigarettes. He neither noticed nor cared. All he could hear was the pounding of the rain of the sidewalk, and the sound of the shots being fired.

Who am I? Connor Larson? No. A murderer.