stars.
I noticed that her hair smelled of cinnamon right before I killed her.
Afterward, as I gazed down on her still, lithe form, I wondered what she'd been in life, besides an assassin. Did she like Classical music? What was her favorite color?
I took one last look at her, paying special attention to the sharp, unnatural bend to her neck, then walked out of the alley. She was the first female I'd had to take down. Even then, with her body still warm, I was pretty sure that I'd never forget her.
The particulars of the mission are unimportant to my story. Suffice it to say that I encountered no more serious obstacles in its completion. After my debriefing, I go back to the small, unremarkable rat-hole that's the closest thing that I presently have to a home, only to discover that the stray cat I'd spontaneously adopted three weeks ago had been captured, tortured and finally killed by someone.
No one knows me here and I spent a minute wondering why someone would take the time to throw the poor beasts' carcass onto my minuscule, second-floor balcony. I left his broken body where he'd landed; I needed a drink.
My freezer contains two things: a half-empty bottle of vodka and a mostly-empty pack of cigarettes. I don't smoke but my sister does; she left them there the last time she visited. She said keeping them there helps seal in the flavor. I haven't seen her in almost a year.
I grab the bottle and go outside to sit with Jacob. The night sky is clear, but the city lights make it hard to see the stars. I remember how bright they used to be when I was young. I could sometimes read by their light.
My first sip burns going down. He's still dead. Something's bothering me, but I can't quite figure out what. It's gotta be about the woman, but that doesn't make any sense. I've been the cause of so many people's demise and I've never lost sleep over any of them; not even my first.
I let my mind wander and take another sip of vodka. Sooner or later, my subconscious will let me in on the big secret; I've just got to let it tell me in its own time. My eyes are drawn up to the dimly glimmering stars again. Cinnamon echoes in my nostrils.
Suddenly, a story pops into my head; an old one. Something I read when I was very young. 'Friday' by Robert A. Heinlein. Like most of his work, it's a beautifully-crafted character study masquerading as a science-fiction-esque action/spy story. I think I was twelve, the first time I read it, and I adored the main character.
She was smart, she was ruthless, she was funny. Most of all though, she was loving; at least, to those few who were worthy of it. Every time I read that book (and I read it many, many times), I would always ask myself if I was the sort of person that Friday might like. Deep in my soul, though, I always knew that the answer was no.
I'm highly intelligent, quietly implacable and many would say that I'm pretty entertaining, when I want to be. But I'm not loving, by any means. No, in my most perceptive moments, I know that cruelty calls to me far more than kindness. I may admire and serve those who strive to uphold Order, but I'm far more comfortable with the sublime rage that darkness breeds.
I try to take another sip from the bottle, only to find that it's empty. I set the bottle down beside me, then absently run my fingers through Jacob's blood-matted calico fur. He was a good cat. I briefly think about torturing one of the neighborhood kids until he tells me who killed my pet, but soon discard the idea. Attention is not something that I need right now.
Once more, my mind circles back to the woman in the alley, but this time I know why. My profession is a difficult discipline for anyone to follow and doubly so for a female. Even though I ended her, she was no amateur. I could tell that by the way she shadowed me before I trapped her in the alley that would soon be her deathbed. Even when she realized that she was well and truly cornered and that there wasn't anything left to do but die, she never wavered.
Our Dance was short and silent; as most serious fights are. I felt the snapping of her neck with every ounce of my tattered soul and I held her up for the briefest of moments after life fled from her body. I didn't realize it then, but I had just killed my own personal Friday.
My kind tend toward solitude, but we (or, at least, I) always hold out hope that, someday, the isolation will end. I suppose that's foolish; there's nothing but the thrill of the hunt and a never-ending road to walk alone for me. Honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way.
It's only sometimes, like when I'm sitting next to a dead friend or have just snuffed out a life that I could've maybe loved a little bit, that I wonder what might have been, had I reached out to those cold, uncaring stars a little less.
Afterward, as I gazed down on her still, lithe form, I wondered what she'd been in life, besides an assassin. Did she like Classical music? What was her favorite color?
I took one last look at her, paying special attention to the sharp, unnatural bend to her neck, then walked out of the alley. She was the first female I'd had to take down. Even then, with her body still warm, I was pretty sure that I'd never forget her.
The particulars of the mission are unimportant to my story. Suffice it to say that I encountered no more serious obstacles in its completion. After my debriefing, I go back to the small, unremarkable rat-hole that's the closest thing that I presently have to a home, only to discover that the stray cat I'd spontaneously adopted three weeks ago had been captured, tortured and finally killed by someone.
No one knows me here and I spent a minute wondering why someone would take the time to throw the poor beasts' carcass onto my minuscule, second-floor balcony. I left his broken body where he'd landed; I needed a drink.
My freezer contains two things: a half-empty bottle of vodka and a mostly-empty pack of cigarettes. I don't smoke but my sister does; she left them there the last time she visited. She said keeping them there helps seal in the flavor. I haven't seen her in almost a year.
I grab the bottle and go outside to sit with Jacob. The night sky is clear, but the city lights make it hard to see the stars. I remember how bright they used to be when I was young. I could sometimes read by their light.
My first sip burns going down. He's still dead. Something's bothering me, but I can't quite figure out what. It's gotta be about the woman, but that doesn't make any sense. I've been the cause of so many people's demise and I've never lost sleep over any of them; not even my first.
I let my mind wander and take another sip of vodka. Sooner or later, my subconscious will let me in on the big secret; I've just got to let it tell me in its own time. My eyes are drawn up to the dimly glimmering stars again. Cinnamon echoes in my nostrils.
Suddenly, a story pops into my head; an old one. Something I read when I was very young. 'Friday' by Robert A. Heinlein. Like most of his work, it's a beautifully-crafted character study masquerading as a science-fiction-esque action/spy story. I think I was twelve, the first time I read it, and I adored the main character.
She was smart, she was ruthless, she was funny. Most of all though, she was loving; at least, to those few who were worthy of it. Every time I read that book (and I read it many, many times), I would always ask myself if I was the sort of person that Friday might like. Deep in my soul, though, I always knew that the answer was no.
I'm highly intelligent, quietly implacable and many would say that I'm pretty entertaining, when I want to be. But I'm not loving, by any means. No, in my most perceptive moments, I know that cruelty calls to me far more than kindness. I may admire and serve those who strive to uphold Order, but I'm far more comfortable with the sublime rage that darkness breeds.
I try to take another sip from the bottle, only to find that it's empty. I set the bottle down beside me, then absently run my fingers through Jacob's blood-matted calico fur. He was a good cat. I briefly think about torturing one of the neighborhood kids until he tells me who killed my pet, but soon discard the idea. Attention is not something that I need right now.
Once more, my mind circles back to the woman in the alley, but this time I know why. My profession is a difficult discipline for anyone to follow and doubly so for a female. Even though I ended her, she was no amateur. I could tell that by the way she shadowed me before I trapped her in the alley that would soon be her deathbed. Even when she realized that she was well and truly cornered and that there wasn't anything left to do but die, she never wavered.
Our Dance was short and silent; as most serious fights are. I felt the snapping of her neck with every ounce of my tattered soul and I held her up for the briefest of moments after life fled from her body. I didn't realize it then, but I had just killed my own personal Friday.
My kind tend toward solitude, but we (or, at least, I) always hold out hope that, someday, the isolation will end. I suppose that's foolish; there's nothing but the thrill of the hunt and a never-ending road to walk alone for me. Honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way.
It's only sometimes, like when I'm sitting next to a dead friend or have just snuffed out a life that I could've maybe loved a little bit, that I wonder what might have been, had I reached out to those cold, uncaring stars a little less.