how do you destroy a monster without becoming one?

The asphalt shined with fresh rain as they walked through the darkened alley. The sounds of the city echoed off the buildings, lending a sort of white noise to the event at hand. They stopped, there, by the overflowing dumpster. A rustling sound came from a few feet to the left. A rat, they thought. Or a cat.
It didn’t matter. None of it would matter soon enough.

The air tasted particularly sour, a mix of smog and waste and foreboding. They took a deep breath, wiping their hands on the leg of their pants.

“Well?” the voice was gruff, familiar but heavy with the weight of exhaustion. They turned to face the dark figure who stared back at them. A single shake of the head told the figure everything. “Good,” the voice retorted, opening the black cloth that wrapped around them like a cloak. As if they were some sorcerer, or something, instead of a run of the mill scumbag. “Here’s your due,” the man said, holding out the envelope.

They reached out and wrapped their gloved hand around the thick envelope, payment for their crime. Job, they corrected. Payment for their job. Yet, try as they might, they couldn’t keep the scene from playing out in front of them. They got what they deserved, they tried to reason with the guilt working on their windpipe.

“I look forward to working with you again,” the man huffed like a deflated balloon before turning on his heel and stalking into the night. They were a criminal, they reminded themself as they watched the figure disappear. Their head pounded, pressure building behind their eyes. Their words did little to calm them, the framed photograph searing into their mind. Drops of red across the smiling face: a little girl.

“I did the right thing,” they said to no one. The envelope felt too heavy in their hands, their limbs lead. It clattered to the ground, too quickly. Too much money. Their teeth gnawed on the inside of their cheek, the metallic taste of blood sending them reeling into the memory. The very real, very recent memory.

They didn’t look, before. In and out, that was their MO. So in they went, quiet and careful. They found their mark and did their job. Business as usual. Routine, even. Why, this time, did they feel the need to wander, to let their eyes take in the life they’d extinguished?

The blood across the child’s laughing face, that jarred them. But what broke them in a way they’d never felt before, that was the drawing on the kitchen refrigerator. Best Daddy, the photo was labeled. Stick figures, smiling stick figures. Sun and rainbows and daddy.

“This is the job,” they could still hear the words. “They do bad things, we make them pay.” They never drew stick figure families. Instead, they learned how to shoot a gun. Instead of smiling, they learned how to warp their face to be as unforgettable as possible.

“Fuck,” they muttered, bending over to pick up the cash. This was all they knew, after all. And they were the good guys, just like dad always said…right?