Internal Conflict

“We need to talk,” Cynthia said as I stepped into the room. She sat at the table with her hands clasped, eyeing me as I lingered in the doorway. Her nervous disposition was nowhere to be seen; even the nervous twitch of her eyebrows was still behind the rim of her meticulously clean glasses. I twisted the emerald ring on my finger.

 “We do,” I said with a stifled sigh, and moments later, I was settled across the table from her. 

“So you agree, then. Troy has to die.”

“Not die. That’s not what we agreed,” my lips quivered and my brow dropped. 

“You broke our agreement a long time ago. They’re already downstairs, anyhow. Take a look if you don’t believe me.” Cynthia’s words swam in the artificially-cooled air like a virus refusing to die. I searched her face a moment longer, but there was no hesitation. 

“What are our alternatives?” I shifted, mirroring her posture as I swallowed. 

“There are none; you should know this. I just wanted your opinion before it was executed.”

“Can’t make up your mind, can you?” My eyebrow twitched. 

“I can, my dear. And you will too.”

“If you kill him, you’ll have more than just one death—”

“On my hands?” Cynthia finished. “I’m well aware.”

We stared at each other in silence. It was unnerving to see someone like her so calm. “I sat there, where you are, once. I know what you’re thinking. Trust me, you would do the same.”

Cynthia rose and ambled to the door. Below, there were the muffled sounds of gunshots. I stared ahead, noticing Cynthia linger in the doorway. She twisted the emerald ring on her finger. “And one day, you will.”