After the crime she decided not to talk to anyone.
Talking to people made her tired to that extend that she decided to stop it. She remained silent and since that time she had never talked to anyone. This was the reason I confessed my most deepest thoughts to her, my secret missions, classified information that its knowledge bothered me to that extend that I couldn't think and act reasonably. Talking to her soothed my mind, undressed me before her. Once I poured out what lied on my liver I could rest assured that she would keep that knowledge to herself. She didn't speak nor she could write. Getting information from her was as difficult as to convince oneself to put a fresh underwear on unclean body.
The phone rang. Once. Twice. There was no third time. And it wasn't meant to be. It was a sign to move. I put the bottle of vodka down and stood up. Took the gun from the kitchen table, grab my jacket and rushed down the stairs.
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