[ WP ] On one night of the year , the dead can return and converse with the living . As a hitman , this is not a day you look forward to .

I check the door is completely closed. Again. Like it ’ s going to do something. 
 
 I pick the gun on the table, checking the ammo, aiming twice and getting used to its weight. I hate not having my own. I hate none of them can help me. 
 
 I turn off the TV, where the news channel is talking –again- about this marvellous event, is talking –again- of dead people coming out of their tombs to talk to the living. Nothing could scare me more. 
 
 No, I didn ’ t have a hard childhood and my parents keep nagging me even after death, they live in Maine, United States. No, I didn ’ t leave mi brother, cousin or grandfather to die while I was watching, they ’ re all fine, thank you very much. In fact, my grandpa won the lottery last week, the lucky bastard. No, I don ’ t have family that hate or something like that, the reason I dread this day more than any other is because, given my job, I have to face a lot of deaths that want to be answered for. 
 
 No, if you ’ re wondering, I ’ m not a doctor, nurse, paramedic or anything that have to do with medicine, in fact, my job is much simple, and, at the same time, much complex. I like to think of myself as a problem solver, you have a client that doesn ’ t want to pay you? I can solve it. Your boss is in Bahamas while you and the other employees are facing his bankrupt? I can solve it. Have you found your husband in bed with your sister? I can solve it. In a permanent way, if I may say so. 
 
 I ’ m a hitman, a good one, I like to think. That ’ s why no one doubts where to go if there ’ s some problem that has to be solved quickly and discreetly ( and, why not, expensive. You have to pay for quality ). That makes me have this problem, the problem that brought me to the 47th floor in a hotel in Dubai. Some of my solved problems come to pay me a visit, not everyone agrees that their time would be better spent with their families. No, they have to come to harass me, a simple worker. If you don ’ t do bad things, I don ’ t have to kill you, it ’ s easy, truly. But they were stubborn in life and they ’ re stubborn in death, so the only option is to seclude myself and wait –not like in the 2014 ’ s incident. 
 
 The phone rings. 
 
 
 “ Hello? ” 
 
 “ Sir, as you have asked, we inform you that two persons are going to your room. ” Damn it, this year they have been quick in finding me. At least they were two quick jobs, nothing else here. 
 
 “ Can you stop them? Sincerely, I don ’ t want to see anybody. ” 
 
 `` Sir, I regret to inform you that none of our employees are trained to stop the dead. ” He ’ s talking like I didn ’ t knew it. No one can. Not even me. 
 
 “ Oh, all right. Bye. ” 
 
 
 I hang up the phone while the receptionist is still speaking, getting ready to an interesting night. I count the seconds till I heard the first knock on the door. 248, they ’ re getting slow. 
 
 I look through the peephole and, honestly, the image is disturbing. It ’ been years since I killed one of them and his skin is tattered, especially on his face, the only discovered part of his body. The other one, a young innocent looking girl who was really passing drugs –disturbing my client who wanted to have the monopoly- is barely changed, only the colour of her skin could give away that she ’ s dead. Of course, to me –the person who not only knows how she died but were the reason- the mark on her arm is perfectly visible even if it ’ s concealed with make up. They knock again and I know I have to open the door or they ’ ll kick me out of the hotel. My ten hours of torture start now. 
 
 The man drags himself towards the sofa where he makes himself at home. The girl, more demure, sits next to him while I try to ignore them both. I feel safe having the gun in the inside pocket of my jacket. I know I can ’ t kill them again, but it gives me security. 
 
 I try to make some tea, ignoring their questions. Year after year they keep finding me. I don ’ t know how. It ’ s like I have the fucking batsignal over my head. I pick my mug and sit on the armchair, far from them, and turn on the TV, looking for some cartoon with the highest volume my ears can take. 
 The complaints of the girl make me turn to my undesirable guest. He ’ s trying to force her, who, in turn, is trying to run away from him –even if she can ’ t, given that he ’ s holding her next to him. I take the gun and shoot him in the chest. The bullet goes through him and the sofa, embedding itself on the counter. 
 
 
 “ You, don ’ t move, ” I order, my gun still pointing at him. 
 
 “ You can ’ t kill me again, ” he mocks. 
 
 “ I can break your legs again, and let ’ s see how you come back to your tomb, scumbag. ” I sit between the two of them. They move, forced by the invisible barrier that is protecting me. It ’ s like being inside of a box that I can go out but no one can come in. I can touch them, but they can ’ t touch me. I think that ’ s the only thing that kept me alive in 2014. 
 
 “ You should blame her. With the way she ’ s dressing, she ’ s just asking for – “ My gun on his mouth silences him. 
 
 “ Just one word and I blow your head off. I ’ ve already killed you once because of this. I would be delighted to shoot you again, believe me. 
 
 “ You ’ re being so nice to her, ” he says, slowly. “ You know, for someone who murdered her. ” 
 
 “ He ’ s right, you know? ” 
 
 “ Oi, you were passing drugs like lice in a school. You ’ re guilty of as many deaths as me, so, when I ’ m trying to protect you, don ’ t take his side. ” 
 
 “ And you ’ re right. Sorry. ” 
 
 
 I go back to my tea, ignoring, again, their voices asking me why I killed them. As if being a rapist and a trader weren ’ t reason enough. I also refuse to answer the phone. I don ’ t need anyone to listen to these two saying that I killed them. Tomorrow I can pretend that they ’ re my family that came to pay me a visit. 
 However, I can ignore the knocking on the door. I get up, pointing the guy with the gun as a warning and walk to the door. I can ’ t see anything through the peephole but, nevertheless, the knocks sounds again. I force myself to open the door. 
 
 And I wish I hadn ’ t. In front of me, with an innocent smile and a bullet hole on his stomach, there ’ s a little boy, no older than five. And it ’ s then that I realize where I lost my gun. 

