[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.
You should be thanking her :P
ReplyDeleteThis is so good. :O
You should totally write more fiction.
Amaaaaazing, man. (Y)
ReplyDeleteBro...amaaaazzzzziiinnnngggg :D
ReplyDelete