Texts from the last few rehearsals

Just found this as i was logging on : http://news.uk.msn.com/in-pictures/gallery.aspx?cp-documentid=150161883, it just caught my eye and i like some of the images. It's basically just an article about failed assassinations of world leaders, thought the section on hitler was quite interesting.
My assassination story- Death by Bath Bomb:
Hi, you probably don’t know who I am and I’m not going to bore you with my life story, I’m sure you’ll know about me soon enough. The thing is, on june 25th it will be my 21st birthday, some would say a pivotal moment in life. On that day I will also be attending probably one of the most highly anticipated parties of the year....no not mine, I am unfortunately not that famous, but I won’t name names, just in case people find this.
Here is a little Background information, lining the shelves of my bedroom wall are, I dunno about 35 dvd’s. All of which bear the perfectly flawless face of a certain celebrity. Under my bed is a pile of magazines, last time I counted I had 72, again all of which bear that same face. Some people would say I was obsessed. I disagree, it sounds too positive, it suggests that I like her....want to be her. I used to be a fan of hers...not sure why when I come to think of it, she’s pretty but that’s all she has going for her, I think maybe even I act better than her. But anyway, I one waited for her outside the hotel where she was staying, in the pouring rain, no umbrella for 5 hours. And she just ignored me. From that moment, all of my admiration for her died, and ironically, since then I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. So I plan to recreate that little moments, roles reversed and a little more literally. The story goes like this.
My brother in law runs his own company, providing technological and media equipment, or something like that. He’s done tours for people like U2 and Sugababes. He was also hired to set up the entertainment equipment for my target. It turns out she’s having one of her many parties in the presidential suite of a London hotel. A London hotel that I now happen to be working at over the summer, and with it being my birthday on that day, I pleaded to work the morning and afternoon shift, so I could have the night off, meaning that I will get to prepare a certain someone’s bath. You know those bath bomb things you get which fizz in the bath to make it smell nice, well I sort of modified one so it contains a certain deadly chemical. However, I get searched before entering certain rooms, therefore I plan to anonymously send a birthday package few days before and then play the role of the innocent maid who thought it would be nice to use the gift to make her bath extra special. How could anyone suspect me, I was only doing my job, using my initiative. Simple.

My text inspired by the final scenes 'The Assassination of Jesse James':
At my lowest point I often wonder what it would be like to visit the families of the people I have killed. The Johnson family. Mr Davenport. Mrs Newbury and her three young children. I imagine the piercing look they would give me upon the revelation that it was me standing on the other side of their front door. It will be the same look that I gave to their son, their father, or their wife. I imagine stepping into their shoes, knowing how it feels to face pure hatred.
It is only to myself that I speak about the horrors of my past. I trust no one else. I speak of things that I didn’t know I knew. I try to replay the shootings over and over, trying to recall every last detail. The ticking of the clock, the colour of the door, the creak of the floorboard. The sound of the gunshot. But I cannot remember. My brain doesn’t let me.
I am ashamed of the joy that I felt and my inability to forgive. I am sorry about my cold-bloodedness, my blind passion and rage. I truly regret killing them, I miss them as much as anybody and wished their deaths hadn’t been necessary.
I know that the smiles disappear from people’s faces as I pass them by. I know that people only tell me what they think I want to hear. I am not afraid of the truth. I know the truth and have accepted what I have done.
I read the threatening letters that are sent to me. I read them with eyes that remain glazed over, as if unaware of the world around me, unaware of the fear I have instilled and the chaos I have created. But they only invoke a certain curiosity in me. A need for knowing.
I spend my days staring at the walls to which I am confined. I trace my life through the brickwork. I look for the flaws, the uneven indentations in the concrete, the irregular brush strokes. I imagine that they somehow represent my life. That this room was built for me and me alone. That I will be it’s only inhabitant.
I know what is destined for me. I will suffer the same fate as my victims. I know the process well enough to see that the end of my life is just around the corner. He will come for me tonight of his own free will, with no thought on his mind but to kill the one who tore his life apart. No one will try to stop him. Not even me. No one will want to visit the scene of the crime. There will be no eulogy written about my life. No one will parade my body through the streets in mourning. Only a priest will attend my funeral. The trigger will be pulled and I will lie still on the floor, my eyes fixated on the walls, trying to find the crack that represents the end. The light will fade slowly from my eyes and I will have nothing left to say.