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An Assassin's Dilemma

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An Assassin's Dilemma

Post by Guest on Sun Jan 15, 2012 1:27 pm

A scrawled italic note at the top reads 'Foreword'. A few millimetres beneath it, a short paragraph of writing begins: This journal is addressed to no-one in particular, and yet everyone who means something. I'm not quite sure how to begin this, and as such... this entry... this entry is dated on the dawn of the autumnal seasons, of the year 2011, and is addressed to whomever it may concern or whomever may happen upon it.


What is life, but the most fickle of energies sustaining our forms? What is life, but a reason, and a meaning, drive behind a person's everyday routines? What is life... what is life, but what you have been pre-programmed to do for all eternity? What is life, but survival instincts and necessities of reproduction?

I'm feeling philosophical and creativity is flowing from me with naught but this shitty little leather-bound cheap notebook to have it be expelled, disgorged upon. I've had far too much for drink, and alas, it doesn't matter. It hasn't ever done, it won't ever do.

This will be a taking of inventory. A meditatory activity to organise various ideals and trains of thought; over the last few months, I have become so confused, and I have strayed far further from the path of the genre progenitor, the artist, the writer, the originator, the visionary, and the forefather of revolution, than I had ever wanted to. Life was so much simple when murdering and spattering my mark in a crimson swath across the globe was all that I lusted for. But alas, now, these damnable human emotions, these infernal chemical triggers set deep within me at the most basic of levels, have been awakened, and now factor into my reasoning and action. I think. But weeks ago, the process was machinated and mechanical. I was, simply put, a well-oiled hydraulic machine. Input money, output blood. Simple enough, aye? Aye. And now, where am I? Sat thinking of things best left unspoken in the presence of even the dirtiest individuals.

I talk of cold, bloody killing. It is my art; it's what I do best. I am a villain of the highest caliber, a businessman who trades, very simply, blood for money. I touch and bless those which none else will even consider going near. I radiate an aura of death; my fingers, alchemy, and pistols are each parts of a huge, swooping, composite scythe, handed down to me from the Reaper himself. I carry out his desire; I deliver unto him fresh souls that have done wrong in one twisted manner or another. T'is but my calling. And I make profit from it whilst I do so. Is that so bad? That I am rewarded for my good deeds? Allowed to indulge in my luxuries? I know my time will too come, as all that goes around comes back around similarly, but I accept this. I know my legacy will outlast my life.

People fear me, and will continue to fear the legend of the pale-skinned, silver-haired, cerulean-eyed assassin even decades or centuries after my passing. I... enjoy this. I feed from fear. Lately, the hunger has been aching inside me, scratching at its bounds far more than usual, aiming to dampen the affects of these atrocious feelings in my gut. This love, this hate. This guilt. I am no remorseful man; and I know my subjects, my prey, must be delivered to the doorstep of my black-cloaked skeletal master. This guilt hinders me not; and yet, it stays there, ever-present, burning with a fury no manner of alcohol or lies can trump or suppress.

My withdrawals from killing stem too from this reason. Hunger and addiction have been catching up with me; my tenure may be shorter than I had initially thought. My skill is not dulled, yet my mind is grated. I work twice as efficiently, think twice as hard, yet feel twice as horrific. A fair trade, some would say, but even I'm not sure I have the stomach for this manner of mortal exchanges. It feels like an illness, an infection, growing and incubating in the cold, dark, deepest pits of my own personal Tartarus. The blackest infernos of my underworld.

The girl. She was the key and always has been. In a former life, I would have simply suggested executing her as some sort of solution; but I know now that I can't even fathom the risk that I would be taking. On one hand, cutting her out like a cancer inadvertently affecting my ability, would allow me to go about my daily business. And yet... these feelings I possess for her? They are totally... totally and completely... oh-so-despicably... human. I... I love. Images of her are the only things that can satiate my mind and alleviate my fears, setting me to sleep. We've met but once, and spent a night simply talking and laying in an embrace... and that has done wonders. Memories now can dampen this pain, but only as a temporary fix...

I have now in my mind formulated a solution. The denying of these mortal aches and pains. I must see her again. I will journey to the eastern continent and confess to her feelings above all else; simply being near or with her should be enough. I can soothe my raging synapses, calm the chemical guilt in my gut, and once more, refine and reforge myself into the master-class, cool-headed assassin I once was. I let the feeling not effect my appearance and visage; for this would impede me, this would attack the integrity of status and reputation I so possess. Not that any survivors would be alive to transmit the message of my inability, but... still... it's a personal issue, t'would seem.

So, it is decided. To Xing I ride. Out on a whim, moving only on desires and pitiful human emotions, one at the summit of all the others, hopefully triumphing over them in the most bloody of duels... for love forces men even as deep in their own grandeur such as myself to commit the most eccentric atrocities and acts...

I leave behind this memoir, this notebook, amidst what will most likely be the smouldering ruins of my latest contract's locale and abode. He sleeps now, as I sit at his table, eating his food, drinking his wine, writing with his ink. Should anyone find this, pursuing me because of some twisted ideal of justice will be pointless for many a reason; I enforce the will of God just as much as I do the will of Death.

Goodbye, reader.

- An assassin


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