The story by Anna Shvetsova

Dark, like the shadowy winter
night, tight, like the grip of someone’s fist; ruthless, endless. That was the image of his sister, of his beloved sister who died in 2014 under the barrels of sniper guns.
Five years passed and he became a sniper himself — he chose the heinous job of those who killed his Maria. That was his revenge on the world, his ruining of past ideals, his own despise of any kindness, any light which he believed in until she died. That was also his chance to find the killer — the only meaning of his current existence, soaked in tears and rum, drowned in heart wrenching grief.
• • •
— Brother, dear — calm, soothing voice reached his half-lost conscience and the curl of beautiful light glistened between his eyes. He  was dreaming and her surreal image was floating around him; and every dream reminded him of her — of her hair with a colour of wheat, of her large blue eyes, of the birthmark on her shoulder.
— Maria! — he exclaimed. — You are there...oh, how I miss you
— I know, I know — she said gently, stroking his hair. She then touched his forehead and asked in a grave manner:
— But what are you doing, my love?
— I am trying to find the one who took you away from us and punish him.
And you do it by the means of killing other innocent people? The ones who are just like me? — she shook her head and silently took him to the emerald curtain which hid something. Maria turned to him, her face pale, her eyes lost any sign of affection to her brother:
Now if you want to find the killer, you may look right there.
She tears the curtain off and what  he sees in front of him is the mirror; the mirror with his distorted image, like the perverted picture of Dorian Gray; he laments from pain.
***
So, you are leaving us, Preston? After years of such a good work?
This evening his commander, Clark, a man with thin lips and steel look in his eyes was in a much more joyful spirits than usually.
It is either the good day or the good wine; he smiles; he doesn’t seem to care a bit about his leave, yet something remotely human glistens in his face.
— I..I endure a  hard time right now. Changing my priorities. Or rather  her questioning them — he answers to Clark dryly.
— Understand you, Preston — commander  suddenly turns to him and says very slowly — you know, when I killed my first victim I also had plenty of philosophical shit going through my mind. Like: what am I doing, If I deserve to live after that.
— do you remember her?
— As the light of the day. She was very beautiful — the hair with colour of wheat, large birthmark on the shoulder. Poor young thing.
Rain drops behind the window in large, unbearably heavy droplets — large, unbearably heavy droplets of unaltered cries are filling him. He can walk away, he can forgive, just like she wished he would have; he can, he can overcome the pain.

He takes the gun out of pocket, shots Clark and aims at himself; closes his eyes and wants to remember Her image; but in the mere second  his eternal feelings to her drown in dark.