The Hitman's Confession

A short story which contains violence, murder, and homophobia. Please read with caution.

Photo by Yuriy Bogdanov on Unsplash

Please be advised: A short story which contains violence, murder, and homophobia. Please read with caution.

Hey everyone, this is a story I rewrote and then added to, from a few years ago. The old version is pretty different, so if you want to read it, you can do so here: From the Archives: The Stalker's Confession.

Also, please note, I’m posting this story via one draft. So there may be some errors a long way. (That’s a lie, I edited it a little bit). I hope you enjoy the story nonetheless. Let’s get into it.

The Hitman’s Confession.

Layton was starting to have second thoughts about being a hitman. The mission was simple: He just needed to ensure Alex’s timely demise, get rid of the body, and then report back to his boss. And luckily, Alex had agreed to meet Layton at the bar down the street from his house. Everything was going incredibly well– and contrary to his normal self, Layton was having feelings.

“Hey- hey! You okay?” Alex asked, tenderly rubbing the hitman’s hands. Layton glanced at them, noting the other man's soft touch. Then after realizing he’d been staring, he swiftly pulled his hand away from him, and cleared his throat.

“Of course,” He smiled, perhaps weaker than intended, “Why wouldn’t I be?” Alex was gazing at him, his eyes beaming with worry towards Layton’s wellbeing.

“You’ve barely touched your drink,” He said to the Hitman. True. The bar was supposed to close in about an hour, and Layton couldn’t remember if he ever actually took a sip of the whiskey sitting before him. Feeling self-conscious, Layton grabbed the whiskey and chugged it down.

Alex sighed and took the man’s hands, cupping them into his own. His face was rather worn, Layton realized. Like it had seen a great deal of things– unspoken trauma, and intriguing mysteries waiting to be uncovered. Seeing it made Layton’s heart wrench, and he realized he didn’t know anything about the man he was sent to kill.

Or why Layton was sent to kill him. In the past, the hitman’s boss would include notes about the target. Things like occupation, political nature, and more were revealed to help Layton understand the justification. This time however, his boss had given him nothing.

“I’m on a mission,” Layton decided to say, “I was sent to kill you.”

The hitman waited for a response from the other, for any sign of realization or shock. But instead, the admiration in Alex’s eyes only grew, leaving Layton breathless. The man started rubbing Layton’s fingers again– their softness creeping up the hitman’s much more rough and calloused hands, like a drug Layton wanted more of.

Layton had forgotten how touch-starved he was.

“I don’t think I can hurt you…” He whispered to the other, his thoughts swimming, a flurry of confusion, doubt, and… longing.

“I know,” Alex affirmed with a sweet smile. He squeezed Layton’s hand, sending butterflies into Layton’s stomach. “You don’t have to honey.”

“What?” Layton asked. Alex was being too sweet, too loving, and Layton didn’t understand it. There was a strange aching, he felt, that longing for more. To hold and feel Alex close, instead of the hand-rubbing. He needed more, wanted it, but was unsure. And he needed to understand why Alex was being so kind.

“I was sent to kill you,” he repeated. “Why?”

Alex studied him quizzically, and then sighed. “I suppose he wouldn’t tell you would he?” Layton felt his mind running wild, curious to know what Alex was going to say next. Maybe the other man was a rivaling mob boss, or someone incredibly dangerous and cunning– enough to make his boss not reveal any information out of fear, just a name. But instead, it was so much worse.

“I’m his son,” Alex teared up, “And I’m gay.”

Layton gasped. None of it made sense, yet as the hitman started to wrap his head around it, he felt himself connecting the dots. Of course his boss wouldn’t want word getting out that he wanted his own son dead. But the reasoning behind it terrified Layton even more. Just for being gay? That was outrageous.

“I’m so sorry,” He got out from his seat and hugged Alex, pushing himself deep in his embrace. Surprised, Alex squirmed for a second, and then slowly relaxed. His earlier confidence had diminished with the revelation, but now in Layton’s arms, Alex felt calmer.

Neither dared breaking the hug, nor the tension either felt being so close to each other. Layton was melting, wanting to stroke Alex’s hair, or do anything to reassure the other man. But refraining from it, he held the hug. Until the bartender came up and told them the bar was closing.

The two broke away, much sooner than either were ready for.

“May I walk you to your car?” Layton offered shyly.

Alex grinned at him, “Actually. I don’t drive. Would you mind walking me home? Help me feel safe?” He was teasing the hitman, leaving Layton flustered.

“You know what?” Layton responded, reaching for Alex’s hand, and letting their fingers intertwine. “Let’s do it.” Alex beamed brightly at that, his face so red Layton thought that he was going to faint.

“Let’s go,” Alex exclaimed, and together the two left the bar. Neither were drunk, so there was no worry of walking into trash cans or puking over a fire hydrant. There was much to discuss though, and Layton wanted to figure out how to help Alex out. His father would be coming after them, and trying to escape organized crime always ended up messy.

But as the two headed through down, passing through barely lit streets and roads, something felt off. Layton stopped and let go of Alex’s hand.

“What’s wrong?” Alex frowned, sensing the deepening anxiety.

“I think we’re being watched,” Layton whispered, glancing uncertainty around the street and city skyline. But with how dark out it was, neither him or Alex could see anything. “We’re going to have to move carefully,” Layton told him.

But before either could start walking again, a gunshot rang through the air, and Alex’s body fell to the ground. A bullet had pierced right through the man’s head. Layton scrambled desperately to Alex’s body, murmuring anxiously. But before he could cradle Alex in his arms, something slammed against Layton’s face, knocking him out cold.

When Layton woke up, he found himself strapped to a chair in an obscure location. The room was dark, save for the lighting emitted from a series of computers and monitors. And standing before him was his boss, looking rather glumly at him. Like he was unsure of what he wanted to do with him.

“Marcos,” Layton grimaced, barely able to think. He had no time to process what happened, and he was angry. “You didn’t tell me he was your son. What kind of sick twisted bastard–” A fist went flying into his stomach, knocking the air out of him.

“My dear hitman,” He said without emotion. “You had one job. Why the questions?”

Layton wanted to scream, to break out of the constraints, to do anything he could to enact some sort of revenge. But found himself still gasping for air, unable to speak.

“Look my friend,” Marcos smiled wistfully. “I like you. You’ve been one of my greatest assets, but this.” He gestured vaguely to the monitors, which Layton realized was replaying audio and video from Layton and Alex’s conversation at the bar. “Well, this is unacceptable. You of all people should know that.”

“You were tracking us?” Layton spat out blood. “Our entire conversation?”

Marcos nodded. “You see, there has to be contingencies, and Alex was a risk I couldn’t afford. Since he rebuked me and left, I knew he could bring down our entire operation. I'm surprised he didn’t tell you that.”

“He said it was because he was gay,” Layton winced. “He thought you hated him, which it still sounds like you do.” Another fist pummeled into the side of Layton’s head.

“Gay or straight, matters not,” Marcos spat out in disgust. “He had the potential to ruin everything, but now he’s no longer a problem. You on the other hand…” Marcos walked around the chair, towards something Layton couldn’t see. Layton wrenched violently against the restraints to no avail.

“What are you doing?” He cried out desperately, as Marcos came back around with a phone in his hand. Layton knew what that phone was, and what it meant. And he was terrified. “You can’t send me there,” he insisted, shaking miserably, unable to break the straps holding him.

“I like you,” Marcos said without looking at him. “So let me cut you an offer. If you can survive, we’ll forget this ever happened.” And as Layton pleaded, doing anything he could to get Marcos to not make the call. He knew it was hopeless. They were going to send him there, to The Midnight Carousel, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

The next part comes out later today, and will be a part of a Flash Fiction February challenge. It’s also a part of a bet I lost, thanks to Bradley Ramsey, Mina Howell, and quite a few others. Thanks guy, I appreciate you all. (gonna make you suffer with my storytelling).

Editing to add: here’s the next part!

Let me know what you thought of this story, and I’ll see you when the next one is ready. Buh-byeeee.