wind whips whispering past your pink pert nose in that whimsical fashion you longed for staring out of your glazed window of frosted snow peaks and perks

breathe in, into, out, out to

and

gusting frigid air hits the center of your chest

you long to hold that breath there for as long as you can, nestle it with you into summertime where the muggy dampness oppresses, presses, and then depresses you

yes,

this sensation of brisk clean air and soft sunlight

zesty, zingy, zippy floral scents as people whisk around you

rhubarb, cherry, strawberry

a signal that spring is near

He tugged me into the shadows of where the stairs lie, and rested his chin atop my head.

Wrapped his arms around mine, encasing me into his warmth.

I turned around, breathing out and attempting to look as calm as possible. I was, of course, shaking.

He tipped my chin towards his, and smiled.

He knew.

What he knew, I do not know. But he did, and far better than I.

Slowly

Brought his face closer to mine.

I froze.

Then his lips touched mine.

Stunned, dumbfounded, astounded, shocked.

They were soft, much softer than I had anticipated.

There are several reasons I consider myself inadequate, and my affinity for being mediocre at everything is one of them.

Academics? High classes, good grades. But that's nothing special.

Music? 8 years of violin which have taught me absolutely nothing.

Art? 4 years or so, I'm not exactly phenomenal.

Sports? I've played my sport for 6 years, but wow what's new, I'm not the MVP.

Nothing I do is ever good enough, it's just enough.

In the midst of oppressive darkness and soundless grief, a screeching cry pierced my heart.

It was a cry that evinced bitter betrayal and scathing shock, a cry that no one else seemed to hear.

I forgot to remember that I was alone, miserably alone.

In that bleak, desolate place, I searched to no avail, to find the source of the wretched sound.

Searching desperately, to stop the continuous, insufferable wail that seemed to crush my soul.

But then I remembered.

How pathetically alone I was.

And I finally realized that such a sorrowful and broken cry...was from me.

Sometimes I wish people would fall off like scabs. They're there when you need them but as soon as there's no use you can just flick them off.

Or even better.

Maybe they'll fall off by themselves.

Twisted, I know.

But what can I say?

I'm manipulative.

I'm sincere.

I'm mean.

I'm nice.

I'm fake.

I'm genuine.

What am I?

Who am I?

maybe someone will tell me

i'd hate to choose by myself

tell me no

refuse me

break me

do it.

because the longer we are together

the harder it gets to gather the remaining shards left from my heart

and every sliver I try so hard to pierce back together only leaves another empty space

and as you remain close to me

the magnificent sculpture I have constructed crumbles

but you heal me

and when you are there I am left with a sturdy glass castle that leaves no room for instability

for sadness

for any or every depressing emotion you bring out of me when you are gone

so leave

tell me no

so that I am left huddled on the ground gingerly touching the broken pieces of that sturdy glass castle that you have single-handedly raised yet crushed once again

leave me

to build my own castle

tell me no

so I may learn how to heal without you

“Drop it,” a soft voice breathed into Arwin’s ear. “I know what you’re trying to do, but it’s not going to work.” She jerked slightly but refrained from turning around, controlling her expression to maintain a facade of indifference.

“Who-,” she started.

“The name is August.”

I know, thought Arwin as she dug her dull fingernails into the palm of her hand.

“I know you.”

“I’m flattered,” returned August. “Now why don’t we put down the hammer, and talk.”

“I have my reasons,” Arwin said smoothly, as if she hadn't been caught with incriminating evidence by the most well-connected boy in the entire state.

Trying to destroy his art piece, no less. The dimly lit room, which only highlighted the massive painting that she had been seconds away from smashing wasn't of much help either.

He stayed behind her, his lips a hair's breadth away from her ear.

"Might I have an explanation," he murmured, "To why you were trying to destroy my painting?" he asked, causing Arwin's breathe to catch.

Enough of this. She took a step forward, her heel clacking on the tiled floor, and spun around, facing August head on. She surveyed him, her eyes flicking up and down in a disinterested way. Then she smirked.

"My, my. Quite arrogant aren't we? It is rude," Arwin crooned, "To assume things."

"Are you saying I'm wrong?" asked August dubiously.

"Not wrong, persay, Mr. Grante, but perhaps just misunderstanding the situation."

"You know my last name."

Of course I do, thought Arwin. It's my job.

"Well, considering that you are the governor's son, it would be a shame not to know."

"Ah-right" he said, his cheeks coloring.

How cute, Arwin thought. Did he think I had some kind of interest in him? He's surprisingly innocent, noted Arwin. It would be fun to stay and tease him for a while, but it looks like I'll have to go soon.

"Well I enjoyed talking to you, but it appears that I'm running out of time", said Arwin tucking the hammer underneath her armpit and glancing cooly at her watch. "I hope you have a good evening sir."

"Just where...do you think you're going?"

"Well, I have neither destroyed anything, nor have you found me doing any criminal activity," she paused, and surveyed his face, which was tight but sparked with understanding. "I believe you are not stupid enough, Mr. Grante, to detain me for no reason."

"I understand," said August courteously, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Arwin smiled back, and reached up to clap his shoulder, her behavior like one of a much older adult, contrasting to her youthful appearance. Shooting him one last cold smile, she strode past him, and a mixed scent of bitter almond and expresso tinged with a hint of gunpowder wafted past him. He would not forget that scent for years, even as he passed well into his 30s, 40s, 50s, and forever on.

It was after the girl disappeared he realized that her heels had made no sound on the cold tile floor.

Arwin melted into the shadows.

"Target has been sucessfully delayed."

A pause.

"Good. Commencing sniper's orders for the assasination of Governor Grante in 30 seconds."

The way you wake up is in an empty room.

There’s a single bed. No sheets. No pillows.

Only a mattress.

And for some reason, there's a rope and a mirror.

You hop off the bed and circle the room.

There’s no door.

The walls are white and sickeningly clean.

The whiteness is blinding but you can't look away, and it sears your eyes like when you lean in to close to a fire.

You stare and stare and stare until you can't take it anymore and your eyes are pulsing your pulse racing and your breath jerking up and down in a syncopation symphony.

Out of nowhere, a feral scream bubbles out of your throat and you manage to tear yourself from that wall.

How long have you been staring? An hour? A minute? Your head is too foggy to tell.

But somehow you know that its the room, those endless white walls that mock you from within.

You can't take it anymore.

In a moment of clarity, you rush to the mirror and smash it with your fist.

Showers of glass rain down on you and blood is dripping from your palm as you grasp the largest piece.

Blood leaks from your fingers as you furl your hand tightly around the glass.

You must be insane, but without hesitation you do it anyway, plunging the glass into your forearm.

You watch the blood leak from the cut and giggle, but the giggle's not yours.

Unwillingly your fingers, already smeared in blood, come down to smear the blood all over your arm.

Then you notice several other healing cuts all over your arm.

You lean on the wall and realize it still hurts to look at it.

Smack! You leave a handprint on the wall. Then several more.

You dance and dance, leaving blood-red handprints everywhere.

Eventually, you get tired and you sag on the wall, wondering what the hell just happened.

You collapse onto the floor and you notice the ropes within reach.

Again...

Your hands move on their own accord, like its a routine...or a habit.

They grab the rope and before you know it-

It's around your neck and your hands are pulling and pulling and you leak in and out of consciousness.

In a moment you look up hazily to see the wall opposite of you has the words written in crusty, dried, blood: See you next time!

And unwittingly your hands pull one last time and-

The way you wake up is in an empty room.

A single car. That was all it took.

The day Grace died was the day my world turned black and white.

My sister. She was gone.

No more would she giggle so infectiously she had gotten an award for the best laugh.

No more would she and I whisper late into the night.

No more anything anymore.

I stopped trying.

The world stopped having color.

The world just stopped.

And every day,

I lay in bed.

One tear a day

One

tear

a

day

for

her.

She had told me one time when she was going away to camp. Such an insignificant thing, to be apart for two weeks when I was now apart from her for eternity.

"Cry one tear for me every day, okay? One crocodile tear."

And so I would.

But

a better option lay

I glanced at the

scissors

the rope

the closet.

And just like that

I was off.

To find her.

She heard it before she saw it. The sharp sound a drawn sword makes as it is pulled out of its sheath.

She whirled around, her instincts kicking in as she raised up her daggers to be met with a clang.

She made for a jab but whirled away, spinning on her foot to stand behind her opponent. But whoever it was-they were too fast, and turned quickly, as if they sensed her intentions.

She grinned. Interesting.

Blade on blade, no other sounds but their heavy breathing and the clash of their weapons. It was a dance, a dangerous one. When she pressed, so did her opponent, and when she lept back, the dark figure sliced at her. She parried with her hunting knives, panting. The only difference was that unlike her opponent, she was panting from excitement, the thrill.

As she ducked and twirled, she decided she could not go on calling the person “opponent” anymore.

I’ll name him Lassus. Latin for tired. She snickered to herself. Appropriate.

After a few more minutes of play as she lept out of Lassus's way, and teased the way her life was close to ending, she was ready for the finale.

She smirked. You could almost taste the exhaustion of her Lassus in the air. How unfortunate that he had to die, he had been an opponent worthy of her game.

Her hunting knives paused in the air.

Well...not quite worthy.

As she paused, so did Lassus, startled by her sudden stop. She smiled slowly, a wicked, wicked thing, filled with mischief and promises of danger.

Then she attacked.

There was nothing to describe what she was.

She was simply shadow, mist, and darkness. Before Lassus could even draw his sword again, she was there. Behind him. With a swift kick, he was on the ground. She ground the heel of her boot into his back.

And for the first time, she spoke.

"Well little mouse, what should we do with you?" she purred.

She made sure to pull up her hood, noting where the moon stood and how it would hit her eyes just right.

She was a picture, cloak shrouding her body, eyes glinting silver and gold, and her hair unbound, a gleaming, mess the color of ravens.

Lassus gave no answer but a whimper.

"Get up," she whispered, a hint of promise in her voice.

Lassus looked up startled, but did nothing.

"I said get up." She did not whisper this time, and it was nothing short of a snarl.

"I-I can't."

A refusal? This night would be more enjoyable than she had imagined.

"Whyever not, my pet?"

"You-your foot."

She noticed that her foot was still on top of him, pressing down. She sniffed distastefully and removed her foot.

"Now." Obediently, he raised himself onto his knees, and as soon as his feet were steady on the ground, she ducked into his arms and tugged his face closer to hers.

She looked into his eyes, honey brown with green flecks.

Before he knew what was happening, he was dead.

She looked at her knife, covered in blood, and Lassus, whose throat was spilling all over her cloak.

He had died looking into her eyes.

And then she was gone before you could say murder.

#crime #death #murder #assasin