Old Stuff Galore 2 - The Assassin
I think I was probably upset with my parents when I wrote this, sometime in the beginning of high school. I like it, though it's just a beginning for something and it will never be complete.
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Outside: sun - bright; clouds - soft; air - hot; people everywhere.
Inside: emotions - dim; senses - sharp; blood - cold; all alone.
The assassin was making his way, steps measured in his trademark precision, through the crowded street. He was making mental notes of the people he passed: two suited gentlemen in a restaurant, looking important; a bunch of teenagers, roaring with laughter; a child pointing at a toy store display and looking up at his mother.
The assassin walked on. At some point he looked around (an old man shivering on his feet; a woman striding purposefully with a cellphone at her ear) and slipped, unseen, into an alley. He made his way between houses until at last he could discern his destination: a low, flat rooftop, with a low railing around it. He climbed lightly up the fire ladder that led to it.
Settling down at the edge of the rooftop, behind the railing, he took off his guitar case. He opened it and took out his dissembled weapon (this makes no music). Put it together, set it on the railing and took the picture of his intended victim out of an inside pocket (this will be all that's left). Memorized her face (so young).
He put his eye to his eyepiece, scanning the building in front of him for the window of her apartment. In his mind he heard voices: his conversation with his client, when the client was making the order. The girl was his opponent's daughter - a filthy rich, spoiled brat of a daughter. The assassin was to avenge her father's success in business through her death.
He found her. She was sitting in her balcony, her odd violet hair whipping in the wind round her face.
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Told you it was never finished.
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Outside: sun - bright; clouds - soft; air - hot; people everywhere.
Inside: emotions - dim; senses - sharp; blood - cold; all alone.
The assassin was making his way, steps measured in his trademark precision, through the crowded street. He was making mental notes of the people he passed: two suited gentlemen in a restaurant, looking important; a bunch of teenagers, roaring with laughter; a child pointing at a toy store display and looking up at his mother.
The assassin walked on. At some point he looked around (an old man shivering on his feet; a woman striding purposefully with a cellphone at her ear) and slipped, unseen, into an alley. He made his way between houses until at last he could discern his destination: a low, flat rooftop, with a low railing around it. He climbed lightly up the fire ladder that led to it.
Settling down at the edge of the rooftop, behind the railing, he took off his guitar case. He opened it and took out his dissembled weapon (this makes no music). Put it together, set it on the railing and took the picture of his intended victim out of an inside pocket (this will be all that's left). Memorized her face (so young).
He put his eye to his eyepiece, scanning the building in front of him for the window of her apartment. In his mind he heard voices: his conversation with his client, when the client was making the order. The girl was his opponent's daughter - a filthy rich, spoiled brat of a daughter. The assassin was to avenge her father's success in business through her death.
He found her. She was sitting in her balcony, her odd violet hair whipping in the wind round her face.
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Told you it was never finished.