Epitaph of a Lost Soul
My world is one of scampering and scurrying, of ducking and running. One cannot simply stroll through this life, nonchalantly nodding their head at passers-by, neglectful of small details that could be so very important. If I had been so lax up until now, I would surely be dead. My world, my life, my fear hardened soul belongs to this existence, for I am an assassin.
Such an ominous word. When I hear it, images of cloth wrapped villains, knife poised to strike from some dark recess, come to mind. So unlike the reality. It would probably be better if we weren’t referred to with that title. Killer for hire might be more fitting. Hell, murderer would do just as well.
Does my disregard for my target’s life make me a bad person? Perhaps. The world is not simply good or bad in my experience, though. What one person might consider as morally corrupt, may not even touch the heart of the next person. That is what makes life interesting, is it not? The variety.
I found myself on the streets at a young age. I was four, maybe five. My parents had been murdered in front of my eyes and, in a state of confusion, I wandered away from that grisly scene, losing myself in a maze of towering structures and long, fast moving legs. It is ironic perhaps that I ended up pursuing this line of work after my parents became victims of murder. Or maybe it is the reason. It doesn’t really matter, either way. I am who I am, not merely the sum of my experiences.
I’m not sure how long I roamed the bustling streets back then. Time is such a fleeting entity, but it must have been more than a few days as I remember distinctly the sharp pangs of hunger and swollen tongue which ceaselessly demanded that I find water. That was when he found me. He dragged me into this world. He gave me a hot meal, a mug of steaming tea and a warm bed to sleep in. It was an unexpected act of kindness, or so I thought, and in my naïve eyes he became my saviour, a new father figure, if you will. I only knew him as Blake and twenty five years on, I still haven’t the slightest clue if that is his real name or not.
As my boyhood years ebbed on, I catered to the burly man’s every whim and order, wanting to please my newfound mentor in any way possible. At the time, I thought the games we played a little odd, but eagerly delved into them with all effort. Of course, now I know them for what they actually were; rigorous exercises to increase my endurance, agility and strength. Blake certainly knew how to manipulate a young boy into becoming a killing machine, that’s for sure.
There came the point when I realised that I was being moulded into something and that Blake was the expert sculptor, precise and adept. By that time though, I had become so reliant on him, I practically could not breathe without him. There was no way I could think of defying him. I lived for that slight upturn of his crooked mouth, the approving smirk when I performed to his satisfaction. If I had to admit it, I probably still do, even though I haven’t seen the man in many years.
I was eventually unleashed upon the world, as Blake put it, during my twenty third year. I had racked up ten kills to my name, at my mentor’s side. It was the magic number, apparently. I had proven myself, both to him and those we worked for. That day I was given my new name, shedding my old life well and truly behind me.
We had just returned to our small, shabby apartment from performing a small commission locally when Blake had gripped my shoulder firmly. He placed a Beretta 92FS Inox in my hand, the handgun of choice for my mentor due to its wide availability, making it difficult to trace with forensics, and with that quick little smirk of his, offered the words that are still planted firmly in my mind.
‘This is yours now, boy. Treat her well and she’ll do the same for you. Don’t disappoint me, Owen.’
I have wondered more than once why he chose to call me that. What is in a name, eh? I can just imagine his scathing remark if he knew I was dwelling on something so insignificant.
Still, we went our separate ways. I was anxious about being on my own, the first time in my entire life that I wouldn’t have a supporting figure looking over my shoulder. I buried myself in my work, accepting any and all contracts that came my way. Man or woman, homeless or government official, it didn’t matter to those in charge, so why should it matter to me? Weeks turned into months, months became years, and then I took on the contract for that fateful target.
As usual, I picked up the small brown envelope from locker number forty five at the nearby train station. Inside had been two documents; a sheet of paper with a name and address on, and a Polaroid photograph. She was a pretty young thing and I had to admit that the commission did not sit well with me. However, I had learned long ago to separate my emotions from my actions. There had been no other specific instructions, which meant I could deal with her in any way I saw fit.
Three days later, after performing some research and finding out her usual routine, I threw on my long, midnight blue coat, tucked my Beretta into my shoulder holster and headed out into the darkness of the night. The woman, Anita was her name, lived in a fairly upmarket area of the city. Winding, tree-lined streets and groomed lawns painted a pretty picture of the lifestyle of the families that lived there. The house she lived in was a carbon copy of her neighbour’s and every other building on the street. I remember thinking that the monotony of the place would surely drive me mad.
Entering her home proved simple. The cheap security system was circumvented with a couple of snips of the all too easily accessed wiring. Picking the lock took even less time. Why do people even bother? It was clearly more for show than anything else. The house was dark, its inhabitants wrapped up in their beds, oblivious to the death that was creeping upon them.
I entered the woman’s bedroom, gun gripped lightly in my hand. I raised the Beretta, silencer attached, towards the slumbering form that I could make out in the inky darkness, and that’s when my blood froze.
‘Mama?’
Just one word. That’s all it took to shatter my carefully constructed barriers and defences. The voice had belonged to a small girl who shifted next to her mother; my intended target. The child’s voice was innocent, unaware, and all too familiar. In that instant, memories of my childhood flooded back to me, when I had uttered exactly the same word to my own mother, or rather to her corpse.
My mind must have blanked out. The next thing I remember seeing was Anita folding her arms around her daughter protectively, a defiant glare aimed towards me. She didn’t beg, she didn’t cry, she simply stared, as if daring me to destroy both their lives.
I fled. Like a coward, I ran from the house, without a single look back, clinging to my gun like it was some kind of lifeline. At the end of the street, I heaved the contents of my stomach onto the pavement. Yet another blemish on my record. It was the first time I had ever failed to complete an assignment and I knew, it would be the last time. Disappointment was not rewarded well by my superiors, let alone leaving witnesses in my wake.
I didn’t resist when they came for me. I had already resigned myself to my fate, my punishment.
The man sitting on the opposite side of the smooth metallic table continues to stare at me, his cropped hair and slight build brings to mind images of a weasel. His narrow, beady eyes bore into me, judging me. I look away, unable to keep eye contact, I feel sick to my stomach. The small, square, completely unadorned room we are sitting in feels suffocating, making it difficult to draw breath. I feel the prickle of sweat beading on my forehead.
No words have been spoken between us and I’m beginning to wonder what the hell they’re up to. I shift on the hard metal chair, resting my elbows on the table, threading my fingers through my short hair, discreetly wiping away the sweat. I don’t want to show how nervous I am.
I’ve only heard rumours of what happens to those who fail and I’m not one to listen to conjecture or hearsay. Yet, my mind seems to drift back to those stories, of the unidentifiable bodies being washed up on the riverside or other similarly morbid versions. My current situation does not bode well for me.
I hear the click of the door opening and a slight breeze brushes against my cheek. I resist the urge to turn and see who has just entered. No, I must remain calm and collected, all that is befitting an ‘assassin of my calibre’. Ever since that day, that woman and her child, my thoughts, my emotions have been waging war upon each other, confusing me, tormenting me.
I hear a sigh as footsteps patter against the smooth concrete floor.
‘Boy.’
My stomach lurches as the familiarity of that voice reaches my ears. Abandoning the cool facade, I stand abruptly, the chair screeching against the floor. I turn and the man I haven’t seen for seven years greets my unbelieving eyes.
‘Blake,’ I breathe, my voice betraying my surprise.
Why? Why is he here? I can’t comprehend it. Of all the people I didn’t want to learn of my failure... Anything else I could deal with, even death, but Blake’s disappointment was something that could easily crush my resolve. No, what did it matter? I shouldn’t care about what he thinks. He forced me into becoming what I am. He stole my life from me.
My eyes sweep over him, taking in his expression, reacquainting myself with him. He hasn’t changed much, a few more grey hairs perhaps. His chiselled features twist themselves into a scowl.
‘I asked for one thing from you, boy, and you couldn’t even manage that.’ His low voice holds a tinge of anger.
I cringe at the very obvious way he refused to use my name. I feel the beginnings of irritation surge within me. Fine, if this is the way it’s going to be, I can damn well say my piece. I’m sick of having to live my life for other people.
‘What are you doing here?’ I grind out between clenched teeth.
His lip curls into a sneer.
‘I came to deal with yo-’
‘Fuck it. I don’t care,’ I interrupt him. ‘I’m not a boy any more, and you are not my father. I realised long ago you only wanted to use me. Why should I continually seek your approval?’
His eyes narrow as his hand snakes inside his jacket and he pulls out a handgun, his trusty Beretta, aiming it towards me. My breath hitches in my throat as I stare down the barrel.
‘You’re right, boy,’ he uses the term mockingly. ‘It’s too late for that. You messed up, and going by our code, you cannot be allowed to live to repeat that mistake.’
I feel a bitter smile spread across my face. I wonder briefly what is so amusing. The man who rescued me, raised me, taught me, who meant everything to me, is to be my executioner. Surely I should feel sadness? Yet, I don’t. I simply feel relief. A chuckle escapes my lips.
Blake’s eyebrows knit together in a frown. ‘Have you lost it?’
‘Get it over with, Blake. I think I’ll be glad to be rid of you, rid of all of this.’
My heart skips a beat as that slight smirk appears on his face. I may have told myself countless times in the past few days that I don’t care about him anymore, but that one fleeting gesture washes that determination away, like driftwood. My expression hardens as I berate my own foolishness.
‘I thought you were a coward. Perhaps I was wrong.’
His thumb brushes against the safety on the gun, releasing it. I follow the movement, before making eye contact again.
‘Goodbye, Owen.’
My eyes widen slightly at the use of my name. For all his stubbornness at refusing to use it before, he’s softer than I realised. He is actually human. I laugh inwardly at that thought. His finger squeezes the trigger and the resounding bellow of the gun firing echoes around the room.
