I could hear the god damn incessant rings of an ambulance siren. I mean fuck, I get they were responding to an emergency but all I could think, that is the worst noise to hear when dealing with a hangover.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, I Ema Kate Marshall was suffering from a hangover. I was mentally flipping my mother's extremely disapproving face off. This was the worst face to deal with, growing up I knew only one emotion from my mother, disapproval. But there was a difference in the severity of her nature, on a normal day, where I had done nothing to provoke her temperament, I was greeted with just the clear disdain of the disapproving eye. But there were two other faces her semi-disapproved and the extremely disapproved face.

I was regularly acquainted with the extremely disapproved that by the time I had graduated college, I could have sworn she had lost her other face countenance.

But back to those damn sirens speeding passed my destination. I could tell they must be in a hurry because of the speed and the increase of sound increments signified they were rushing. I could only deduce from this, was they were going somewhere.

But as I said before, it was morning, well midmorning. Somewhere between ten and eleven, so border lining the afternoon, but I was still suffering from the chaotic night of debauchery, meaning shots, shots and more shots, that I was performing subpar job performance. I had been loud, sloppy and quite clumsy.

I had slurred my words, caused quite a disturbance, and for a moment thought the speeding sirens were meant for me, because truly, I had no clue as to how I was functioning after the night of tequila shots and the vodka cran chasers… (Girls are most likely cringing at the idea of this concoction).

But I had a role to play, and as the best friend and the maid of honor (in thought) I had to duty to uphold tradition.

And what a night of it.

But I had a job to perform, and no matter the alcohol content still coursing through my brain, I needed to finish the job.

So, I stood there staring down the slide of my pistol, and the front sight aimed right between the eyes of the Russian diplomat/double agent, all I could think and wonder, I wonder what my mother would think of my life.

It was an observation I habitually thought whenever I had a need for my gun. As I laced my finger against the trigger, I could never stop the thought of what my mother would have to say if she saw my standing in front of a dangerous criminal, a threat to the United State of America with a gun cocked and ready to kill against their forehead.

Most likely she would be thinking at what a disappointment I was and the second thought would be to her first favorite, which ever sister of mine that had news of that bastard inducing marriage grandchild that called her first that day.

I was well acquainted with the emotion of bitter. We were old pals.

But anyway, I was standing starring at the oldish young man, with a gun at the ready to his head and I thought of my mother issues. Truly, it only proved that I was a young American woman. Scratch that, it proved that I was a young woman. Being American and nothing to do with daughters disappointing their mothers. I think it is a genetic improbability that mothers must hate at least one of their daughters.

I was very accomplished, in a manner of speaking. I had taken private classical piano lessons that had secured me a spot to study at Julliard for a semester before I decided piano was not my forte… yes I get the pun. I had taken Spanish as a requirement through the public school for two years, and continued with the subject for the remaining two to appease my mother's desire for a Spanish language speaker for our trip to Europe after my graduation. But she had no need because she had cancelled my ticket since she decided she no longer wanted to go to Spain.

So truly there was no need for me to go, and this way I could stay home at the house and take care of the animals. Instead of wasting money to hire someone.

I had also, during my years at high school, studied closely with the language teachers, cultivating a relationship and desire to understand more than just one modern language. I had become fluent in Spanish, French, Italian and German during my four years in high school. I had also begun studying Chinese, Russian and Arabic.

I had never told my family because I had hoped to make it a surprise on our European excursion. Plus I had a knack for languages, or so my favorite teacher Mrs. Nation said about me. I smiled nicely accepting the compliment, but kept the fact of my ability to myself.

I was also an avid runner, training to be in a marathon, something my mother had wanted to achieve. So we had started training together, but she had then invited my sister Laura, and as I was out braving the weather and diligently training forth, they stayed inside for an excuse to chat and gossip about their lives.

I was also an accomplished reader. In fourth grade, we were tested on our abilities, and I was reading at a 12th grade level, and writing at a college level. I never showed my mother, because I knew at the tender age of ten, she would most likely snarl at me for showing off. This coming from the woman that nearly barked at every passerby at how her daughter of 19 was married and expecting a child.

What a bitch.

So, I stood. Staring at the man and realizing I only thought of my mother, while pulling the trigger because most likely was wishing she was on the other side of the gun barrel. Taking the bullet that I so desperately wished to lodge in her brain for the years of agony she inflicted on me through her neglect and mental/emotional abuse.

I had no remorse for this man. I truly did not know his first name. But he allowed my some peace at heart while I pulled the trigger ending his life. I knew that for some reason my employer needed him to be out of play, and I was allowed some theoretical retribution towards my mother.

After, I called in my kill and was confirmed to leave the scene; I stepped briskly into the morning light and checked my messages on my personal phone. My real work had left a message needing me for some emergency, while my boyfriend; I mean fiancé had left a message about the lunch we had planned with her parents at the café to discuss wedding plans.

My life is a little hectic, I was a second year resident, finishing up my last year of generals and deciding on a specialty, while being engaged to truly one of the most amazing men in the world, planning a wedding and leading a double life as a spy for the C.I.A.

Yeah, I guess you could say I have more than just a few mommy issues on my mind.