A Random Piece

[So I was waltzing through Facebook, jobless as usual, when I came across this:

Now, I had (and maybe still have) severe writers block when I read that, so I didn’t make much of it.

But a friend of mine had been asking to read a piece of mine for quite some time now, so I worked on it for all of twenty five minutes, and sent it to her.

She’s been pestering me for a while to put this on here, so here you go.

Bottom line? Blame her for this one, not me. ]

Graveyards sickened me, but not for the reason you'd think.

Sure, the area was covered in an aura of death and despair. Sure, the tears of thousands were the only sources of solace to the departed who would spend the next few years under layers of dirt and gravel, bodies that would soon crumble and decay into nothingness. Children did run amuck, their faces contorted into expressions of confusion and amazement, at not being able to realize why their dear ones were crying, or why they had been brought to this dreary place. Sure, the amount of dark energy the place exuded could have probably powered the gates of Hell for a week or two.

But that's not why I hated the place.

As a contract killer, the first things we're taught at the academy, are to lose yourself to your instincts. When you went in for the kill, all that mattered was you, the target, and your death bringing tool.

But this mentality did have one side effect - whether unintentional or not, I'll never know now: it soon numbed away our senses; five years in service would have reduced us to merely robots controlled by our primal instincts, and by fifteen, we could probably even commit hara-kiri if given the right command.

The mental wails and peals of pain the place let out therefore did nothing to deter, for I took it as just another part of the job I had been trained for.

But what did sicken me was something else, something I'd been deprived of from the very start.

Young people crying over the grave of lost lovers, children placing roses on the tombstones of their dear departed, mothers clutching onto their children, tears rolling down their cheeks as they glanced upon the engravings on people they know once upon a time; they all stood as fate's cruel way of reminding me of the one thing it had wrenched away from me all my life: love.

The father who left to "buy a six pack" and never came back. The mother who hung herself in the attic because her son was the reason her husband had left. The girlfriend who'd left him for dead after robbing his apartment. All of fates dirty hands.

"Let’s get this over with.” I mumbled, as I loaded my Sig Sauer with a new round.