More of that ambiguity I love to write. Reviews are always appreciated. My author's notes are always redundant.

There's a spider on Jaclyn's counter.

She lives in a small apartment, barely making it day to day. "Starving artist" she calls herself, although she, in fact, is an assassin. A poor murderer however, she isn't good enough at the "art of killing" to make a comfortable profit. She rarely completes a mission now, and is barely able to care for herself.

The spider starts to move, and Jaclyn follows the spider with her eyes.

When she contemplates it, she might be a poor killer because she takes pleasure in slaughtering. The feeling of knowing that she ended a life empowers her and allows her to feel a small level of control over her tumultuous life. She moves often, her job requires her to. She can't make friends, she doesn't have colleagues. She's never found a mate and probably never will. Who would love something that murders? A monster. She isn't professional about killing, she does it because she must. She's driven to.

Jaclyn takes a tissue. It hovers over the spider, casting a shadow of darkness over the creature.

Her life is dark. Murder is a dark. She deserves death, probably. With her need to slay, she may not need to exist. She thinks of those she kills the most. Usually she butchers those who are generic. They're easy to do away with; no one notices them when they're here, no one notices them when they're gone. She doesn't kill noticeable creatures, those are too hard to do away with sneakily. She gets too far into the art of inconspicuous killing to be paid for it.

Jaclyn hesitates for a second, then brings the thin sheet down sharply. The spider dies.

Jaclyn walks out, grabbing her gun and holstering it. Jaclyn looks at the dead spider, mostly guts, but she cannot look back.