Prompt #1

[steph]

Write from the point-of-view of someone who committed a murder today. Do not mention the murder.

-From The Writer's Block

[steph]

Cheap hotels look the same, no matter where you are. A cheap hotel is a cheap hotel, whether in New York or Paris or Moscow. Paris does have the benefit of decent food though.
It's still dark when I wake up. I stumble into the bathroom and go through the routine of getting ready for the day. The pre-paid phone in my pocket vibrates as I stumble back out. I sigh and fish it out.
"This is Murph," I say.
"Rise 'n' shine, sleeping beauty," Christian chirps.
"Screw you. I'm dressed and everything."
"You sleep in your clothes?"
"No. Who does that?"
"You would be surprised. Anywho, got the time and place?"
"Yes, Mum." I grin at his sigh. "See you then."
"Don't be late," he warns and hangs up. I return the phone to my pocket.
It doesn't take long to pack my bag. I've learned that it's easiest to keep all my stuff contained. Not that I've got a lot. I zip the bag up and tuck my gun, a SIG P228, into the waistband of my jeans. I pull my jacket and shoes on. Before I leave I check the room one last time for any belongings I might have forgotten. Once I'm satisfied, I close the door behind me.
The night clerk is a sleepy college-age girl who doesn't seem to notice my halting French as she takes my cash.
"Je vous remercie pour votre séjour. S'il vous plaît venez à nouveau," she says.
"Au revoir," I say. I know that one.
My phone claims it's four-twenty-three a.m., that in-between time when the all-nighters have finally crashed and the working folks have yet to wake up. Paris is a ghost town.
Then come the sirens.
They're far off, a ghostly wail in the early morning. I keep walking. Still, it's nice to know my work's noticed.
Christian's waiting two blocks from the hotel in a sedan of undeterminable dark color. I go around to the passenger's side door. It's locked. I scowl and knock. Christian smiles at me and doesn't unlock the door.
"Come on, ya fucktard," I say. I guess he hears because he laughs. The locks click open. I yank the door open and slide in, tossing my bag into the back.
"Somebody's gotta wash that mouth of yours out, Dev."
"Bite me. Just 'cause you swear in Italian doesn't make it any better."
"Sounds better though," Christian says, starting the car.
The car's police radio crackles to life and rapid-fire French comes through.
"What was that?" Taking three years of French in high school hasn't helped me any in France. They talk like they don't have to breathe.
"More about an apparent suicide on the other side of town." Christian maneuvers the car out onto the street. He turns in the opposite direction from the sirens. "They're baffled as to why such a successful business man would want to do such a thing." He flashes me a grin. I return it.
"Well," I say, "We've all got our dark little secrets."

View point character is one Devin Murphy (goes by Dev, Devin, Murph and Murphy, for maximum confusion), a professional assassin. About 19 at this point.