He sat, hidden deep within the undergrowth. Not a breath nor hint of movement to give him away. Waiting, watching.
He knew she would be back. He was patient. It did not matter how long she took, or how cold it was, he would wait. She was worth it. Patience is a virtue his mother always said. She also said he was not as useless as he looked, or as stupid as he appeared. Her last words to him were along the lines of manning up and growing some balls. He wished she could see him now. She would have to eat those words if she could see him now.
The quiet made his head hurt, but it was better than the voices jabbering in his ear as they sometimes did. Quiet could be good, it helped him focus, leave the doubts of his duty, nay worthiness, behind. Away. Not here. Not now.
He allowed himself a moment to look around. The ruins suited this task, were appropriate for the job at hand. Old, deserted, desecrated, forlorn. Forgotten. Forsaken. And isolated. No random passersby, no unexpected witnesses to interfere in the operation. No messiness to clean up or unintended victims to remove. Messiness was terribly unpleasant.
The evening breeze briefly rustled the trees around him, lingering slightly to tease his short hair and brush the leaves across his face in a brief caress. He tentatively stretched his legs, careful not to breach his cover but aware that circulation must be maintained for swift movement the moment it was required.
A noise brought his attention back to the broken walls, something new, something not belonging. Her. He froze, hidden deep within the leafy green, invisible.
She swiftly entered his line of vision, caution forgotten as she seemed to assume this place was safe. Isolated, forgotten, a secret site not known to others. A haven from the outside world. A haven that had been breached, though she was blissfully unaware of the intruder. She dropped the limp satchel from her shoulder, sighed, stretched, pushing her perfect breasts taught against the tight shirt she wore.
He watched, relishing the display. Crouching, still, silent, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. His moment. The voices awoke breaking the solitude, intruding on this, his moment. He hated the voices, the conflict they aroused...
"Move in, get her."
"Hold, be patient."
"Don't let her get away."
"Go, go GO!"
Unaware, she bent and picked the fragrant stalks, humming some pretty tune under her breath, she tucked them into her bag. Slowly, methodically, the bag filled. Slowly, tantalisingly, she came closer and closer to his hiding place, her bag now overflowing with the perfumed plants.
He leapt from the bushes, grabbing, twisting her arms to hold, to lock her within his steely embrace.
Her scream echoed uselessly around the ruins. This place had been chosen with care, there was no help, there was no hope. Her voice quietened, then died.
The voices were here.
"Jacqui Tremont you are under arrest for the cultivation and sale of marijuana. You do not have to say anything, but anything you say may be taken down and used against you in a court of law..."
Understanding Competing Accessibility Needs - *Photo © Steve Guttman | Flickr / Creative Commons* [image: Two small white dogs trying to wrest a red ball from each other's mouths.]*Brooke Winters* www....
2 days ago