1 Misunderstandings (1)

People misunderstand me alot and it's getting to the point where it's not okay.

Especially as the country's most feared assassin or whatnot, I've been labelled as some grim-old apathetic psychopath creep, who spends his days travelling in the shadows to brutally murder victim after victim, like some B-ranked film villain. I'd sue for slander if I wasn't plastered on over thirteen different 'most wanted' lists from around the world.

Nowadays, there were even fairy-tales told by mother's to their kids about the 'Grim Reaper' that's under their beds at night and will get them if they don't eat their veggies. Then, they'd go on their phones, and pull up the first picture of me: dressed in black robes, a skull mask, and glowing red eyes.

Something about being the product of little kid's nightmares just doesn't seem right.

I'd consider myself a good Samaritan—a dedicated white—er, black-collar worker, and a pretty normal guy overall. Though I was hired in a strange way (literally kind of kidnapped), assassination was my job, and like the saying at work goes: don't stress, do your best, and forget the rest. I trained my hardest to learn the human anatomy, honed my skills to erase my presence, perfected the art to blend into the shadows.

But it had been way too long, and I'd grew sick and tired of it all. Retirement from this line of duty was the best for my own happiness.

While overworked isn't the exact term I would use to describe the feeling, as a workaholic, I'd have to admit that the killing sure felt dull, irritating even. Swinging that dagger became second nature—it was as comfortable and as mindless as walking.

The feeling of piercing flesh and the wetness of the spurting blood—I could breathe metaphors for how normal it felt. Like opening an umbrella in the rain; like how the wind would tug and drag the umbrella away to leave behind splatters and trickles down your arm. Some days, you'd get frustrated at the rain and wind, while other days, you'd only acknowledge the rain and wind, brush or wipe it all off, and move on.

That was what my work felt like to me. I truly do not understand how my acquaintances to even mere strangers think of me as KILL and MORE KILL. Yes, I've only recently come to know that I'm bad with emotions and expressing myself and whatnot, but does that really justify the label of 'being crazy for killing,' which only stems from my line of work?

Misunderstandings, misunderstandings. They've built on each other over the years. So now, to Rose, and everyone around, I'm cold and aloof and don't care about anything. I'd been called nothing but skin and bones, hollow-hearted, a emotionless killing machine, a puppet when in reality... well, I enjoy long walks barefoot on the beach, want to fluff a bunch kittens... dunno, maybe become a better or more normal person? And lastly, I could never forget—to become a parent.

Just as every fleeting rain also must come with a storm, and that's where even more of my misunderstandings occur. With grey storm clouds and the rain—that was my work or workplace, everyday, but then every once in a while the boss shows up like lighting and thunder.

My relationship with Rose was probably the biggest misunderstanding yet. I think was around like what, seven years old when the orphanage I settled in went ablaze? Rose had picked me up and raised me (aka bossing me around) ever since.

I'm almost twenty-two this year, which makes up for about fifteen years that we've been together... which sounds nice on paper, if not the fact that our ages are a decade apart. I'd always thought of her as a big-sister type of figure from the beginning even to now. (That was how we greeted each other). At times, an employer, and always a benefactor whenever I walk out of a mission alive. Never an romantic partner.

I don't think I could imagine her as a girlfriend even if I tried, but somehow, she'd already taken me as husband. Her one and only. Which meant that this whole retirement thing went from a headache to a total migraine. Knowing her, she'd take my words to heart and suffer because of it.

Ever since that day a few years back with the exploding warehouses and the full-blown gunfight, I princess-carried her out from that botched mission. That was when she really changed. Again, it was like some C-rated romance, and certainly felt like it. Everything was pretty cliche, though if you asked me—the movies nailed those scenes.

Thus, from then on, Rose concerned herself with all matters regarding me. She committed to pick me up after every single mission, demanded kisses every time she grew tired, and coo'd me every night before bed. One time I disguised myself as the boyfriend of some rich heiress at a gala-ballroom party. As you'd expect, things did not go right. In retaliation, she blew up half a skyscraper and went on a hunger strike for not one, but two whole weeks feeding only off the blood of her victims.

Falling victim to a job I hated, to the mess of the receiving end of an unrequited love, and unable to chase my dreams—or rather, not being to start it in the first place made me fall through in this decision with a resolute hand.

In my mind, a mental checklist with boxes appeared ready to be ticked off, one by one.

Tell Rose and Sicily plans of retirement? Check.

Do a quick make-over and clean himself up? Check.

Reject Rose's feelings clear and square? Check.

Since the big three of my new life plan were all completed, I was certain that I would have an easy time leaving the past behind. However, the doorknob to the organization's training grounds were strangely heavy.

This whole assassin-thing clearly wasn't going to work out for me, so why was it so hard to leave it all behind... ? What was the reason?

Was it the fact that my only skills and talent were perfect for assassination? Was it the years I've spent here and all the fond memories and experiences that is holding me back? Was it the people here?

I'd thought I had already resolved myself to open this crossroad and face the next. Just the prospects of being a father seemed daunting before... but now... only excitement, and eagerness perhaps, filled my bones. I haven't had an adrenaline rush like this since forever, and with it came a more gentle, breeze-like wave of memories that flowed by.

However, I was completely unprepared for the stinging pain and muscle-wrench I would feel to my eyes and heart.

I remembered all the children left to fend for themselves in the slums on the streets. I remembered the abuse and humiliation they'd suffered for nothing more than an ant's meal for food everyday. I remembered the jealousy and envy between the stark contrast of the world and themselves. I remembered the absolute despair of having seemingly everything in the world only to watch and lose it all.

Abandonment. Misfortune. Abuse. Trafficking. Those were the unholy grail of the world, where a new life was supposed to be of joy and blessings, not of torment and agony.

The looming question of that traumatized my past—why was I born just to suffer—rang loud and clear through my fingers. It forced my hand to turn that knob and push the door open. I stumbled myself forwards, only to find that the same children I was speaking of staring at me.

Wrapped with bandages and gauzes, they were like little mummies in the relatively simple cells. Yes, cells. Behind the bars, I could see dirty dishes, pieces of clothing, and traces of blood scattered all over the floors, while on the side laid a tatami bed with unfolded blankets. Most of the kids sat in the corners, with their heads rested, arms wrapped on and around their knees. Placed in front of them was a hand-bell, and a newly polished silver dagger.

It was obvious what the organization was trying to do.

I hadn't been in here for years—more so I didn't dare to be in here and trigger the trauma—and things haven't changed. All of these children were in the same conditions as I was fifteen years ago. Their eyes and pitiful selves were a painful sight to behold. Trekking forwards slowly, I shut my eyes tight as tight could get.

Stinging bruises and bloody scars. Lips so cracked and so dry they couldn't open their mouths. Thin and wiry, so much so one could see their ribs and the slow beating of their heart, struggling to move or even breathe. But none of their conditions, physically or mentally mattered—only their decision to kill could change it.

It ached my heart.

This was truly an inhumane choice a child could make, and truly, from the bottom to my very soul, I wanted to free the reins of this choice for just one child. They won't have to suffer nightmares every night, endure guilty heartbeats at every moment, and shackled by the chains of darkness through their entire lives.

This was my dream, my hypocritical dream—to be the parent I never had.

Now, I'm no saint. I'm an assassin with many, many zero's tied to my death tally but with zero shred of morality. I'm paid to kill whoever, whenever, and wherever. Innocents in broad daylight, for the sake of making a point? Well-respected individuals fighting for noble causes? It doesn't matter. If they have enemies and if the enemies have money then the world shall by dyed red.

You don't have to be the oracle or a seer to tell me that I'll be punished by the hands of the gods to the pits of hell, you don't. I don't belong to society and I won't try to repent for everything I've done. Saving ten kids half-assedly won't change my fate or my karmic ties or whatever. But saving and spoiling and doting and teaching and raising one kid life's to be the very opposite of this one's?

I'll be damned that being a father is harder than being a master assassin.

My mind was finally clear after thinking and setting my goals straight, and thus, walking became much easier. However, after I was only about three-quarters of the way down the hall of cells, there was a loud rattle and clatter of the bars that me stop in my tracks. From the cell to the left of me, there was a little boy, and his clenched fists trembled along with his voice. I waited in silence. In the end, he said nothing. Bangs covered half his face so when he shook his head they ruffled like feathers, and I caught a glimpse of what was a mirror image from fifteen years ago.

Aside, more and more commotion broke out around me. From the clinks of plates, the rustle of blankets to the bell ring, I found myself under fire in all directions.

The dozens of both curious and lost glances my way stopped me in place when a deep and deafening bark that followed soon after shut everything up. The two giant tibetan mastiffs dashed towards me. However, the chains held them back, making loud slams. Their barks and towering presence sure was scary, though I knew that the two of them had quite the fondness for me.

Much to my relief, they calmed down quickly understanding their duty. I continued around the halls, surveying the children for anyone that caught my eye or I felt resonated with me. Yes, I was choosing off a whim, but I still believed in the stroke of fate. Call it an assassin's intuition if you must, but my sixth sense has never failed me.

It seemed that my efforts had paid off, for there were two girly voices from behind me that seemed to have dragged me out of the bubble in my head, all the way back to reality. They asked at the same time, "M-mister?"