FicWad

A/n: Random idea I got while reading a horror collection. Very basic, very vague. Sorry if it doesn't make much sense, but tis just a little random one-shot after all. If you don't get it, my apologies.

Me no own Detective Conan, Shinichi, or Gin. Want to, but, sadly, don't.

...duh.

.-.-.-.-.-.

I've always wondered...

What drives people to kill? To end another's life?

I've heard the excuses. I've heard the apologies. I've heard it all.

Very rarely do I get to meet the person murdered in my line of work, but destiny likes to play with me. I've met a few. Some I like, most I don't.

Nothing to kill over.

But those I don't know before hand, the corpses with only a name and meaningless testimonies to go by, I can't help feeling...sorry.

Whatever they did in their life time...whatever sins they committed...they didn't deserve this. Not death.

I've always despised murders, as far back to when I only had my father's novels to go by. They were the 'bad guys' in life. They were wrong. They had to be punished.

That's where I came in.

My job was to catch the 'bad guys'. I had to set everything right. I was the 'good guy'.

But I always wondered.

Somewhere, in the deepest, probably darkest place in the back of my mind, I wanted to know.

What does it feel like to kill?

Now...now I know.

All around me I can smell blood. Some is mine...

Most is his.

I don't know how I got his gun, but I did, and now I know.

I know why people kill.

Hate.

It's a terrible emotion. Our worst.

It makes anything worth it just to make the feeling of helplessness to go away.

Even murder.

Slowly, my balance wavering, I get up off my knees to look at him.

Dead.

Bullet point-blank to the brain.

I spit some of the blood in my mouth onto his cheek.

Take that, you bastard.

I look down at him, suddenly feeling stronger, despite this small body and the bloody bruises.

I beat him.

The 'good guy' won.

But why is he still smiling? I shot him. He's dead; I'm not.

I won, the end, good-bye.

I'm suddenly aware of the gun resting in my right hand. I drop it in disgust.

I'm just as wrong now I realize. I'm no longer the hero.

I'm a murderer.

This is what you wanted isn't it, Gin?

The dead eyes just stare back, unblinking, unmoving, unyielding.

I drop back to my knees.

Touché.