Wolf Dreams by Yasmina Khadra

What do we really know about obsession?
I killed my first man on Wednesday 12 January 1994 at 7.35 a.m. was a magistrate. He had come out of his house and was walking towards his car. His six-year-old daughter was ahead of him, her braids tied with blue ribbons, her satchel on her back. She passed me without seeing me.. The magistrate was smiling, but there was something tragic in his eyes. He looked like a hunted animal. He started when he discovered me lurking in the doorway. I don’t know why he continued on his way as though nothing were amiss. Perhaps he thought that in shrugging off the danger, he might allay it. I took out my revolver and ran after him. He stopped and turned to face me. In a fraction of a second, the blood had drained from his face and his features were blotted out. For a moment, I was afraid I had got the wrong person.
“Khodja?.” I asked him.

“Yes,” he answered flatly. His naiveté (or assurance) unnerved me. I had the greatest difficulty raising my arm. My finger froze on the trigger. “What are you waiting for?” yelled Sofiane, “shoot the bastard.” The little girl did not seem to realize what was going on. Or refused to admit it. “I don’t believe it,” fumed Sofiane. “You’re not going to bottle out now. He’s nothing but a swine.” The ground threatened to give way under me. I was overcome with nausea, my guts were in a knot, I was paralyzed. Sensing my indecision, the magistrate thought he had a chance to get away. If he had kept still, I don’t think I would have had the courage to go through with it. With each shot, I trembled from head to foot. I couldn’t stop firing. I was oblivious both to the detonations and to the little girl’s screams. I crashed through the sound barrier like a meteorite, beyond the point of no return: I had just stepped, body and soul, into a parallel world from which I would never come back.