Salvation
Just something i'm working on atm. Again, I really dunno if it's any good, but yeah, feel free to comment and criticise. Thankies!
Standing on the veranda, he looked down on the streets of Venice. The wind tousled his jet black hair as he glanced up at the sky. The sun setting on the horizon painted the sky a fiery orange. It was almost time for him to go to work. Devoid of expression, he toweled off the sweat on his body and dressed himself. He checked his equipment, making sure every part was perfectly shaped, for in his line of work, there could be no mistakes.
Five minutes later, he was down on the streets. Nonchalantly, he sauntered his way through the evening crowd and discreetly reached his destination. He stood on the bridge overlooking one of hundreds of canals in Venice. Looking up at the sky, he realised he had arrived early. As he stared at the water and waited, his thoughts drifted. He had another assignment after this, but once that was out of the way, he decided, he would take a holiday and disappear for a while. He thought of his past, what he did remember of it anyway, and realised that he had never once been on holiday. For the past 5 years, all he had been doing was working, and he was beginning to get sick of it. He wanted to take a break, to discover himself and hopefully, maybe find the past he had lost.
The sounds of an oar stroking the water snapped him out of his reverie. Mentally, he chided himself for letting his focus slip on the job. In that split second, he regained his composure and was all that he needed to be, devoid of all emotions and thoughts. He sensed the gondola long before it passed beneath the bridge he was on, and counted five people on it. The man he was looking for was definitely on that gondola.
The four men on the gondola were cheerfully laughing, while the gondola operator nervously added a few chuckles. Three of the men were bulky giants, guffawing at something the smallest man had just said. Short and shriveled though he was, he carried an authority that made him obviously the leader among the men. Clearly, he had risen high in the Mafia and though he was not at its head, he had close connections with the man who was, and today, he decided to take a gondola ride of his turf with his bodyguards. Unknowingly, he had also chosen his fate.
Identifying his target, the man on the bridge tensed and without warning, launched himself over the side of the bridge. In one swift movement, he landed on the gondola and with a flick of his wrist, he'd rendered the gondola operator unconscious. Without breaking his stride, he advanced on the three burly thugs who were forming a protective ring around the small man. He grabbed the first man in a chokehold and knocked him unconscious with his other hand before throwing him off the gondola, then as the remaining two thugs advanced on him, he nimbly stepped out of the way and cracked their skulls against one another. By this time, the small man had reached the other end of the gondola and was trying to climb out onto the bank of the canal. The black haired man barely paused as he reached for his gun from his coat pocket. He bore down on the small man who by now was whimpering and begging for his life. Without hesitation, he took aim, and pulled the trigger. The small man's body hung over the side of the gondola, his blood staining the waters of the canal. By morning, someone would find him, and then the whole of the underworld would know, someone had assassinated the Godfather's right hand man.
At the next dock, he jumped out of the gondola and walked away. By this time, the sun had already set. Clad in black, and with the stench of blood on him, he was the embodiment of living death, a phantom, and a shadow, never to be seen or heard, until he struck. He walked confidently through the passageways of Venice. Normal tourists would have gotten lost in this labyrinth of a city, especially at night, but not he. He knew exactly where he was headed. Left, right, forward, left, right, right...Suddenly, his steps quickened. One more left, and he found himself in the Plaza of Venice. Looking around, he spotted the red scooter that had been promised as his escape vehicle parked near a coffeeshop at the other end of the plaza. Scanning the plaza, he took the long way around, sticking to the walls and moving as a shadow in the dark. It was highly improbable that the body of the little man had been found as yet, but still, it never hurt to be careful. Reaching the scooter, he carefully turned the ignition, listening intently for any sounds that would tell him that it had been tampered with. Yes, he did not trust. Trust was deadly, and a weakness he could not afford to have. He trusted no one but himself, and even then, not too far. He knew, he was human, and the slightest mistake could cost him his life. Finally satisfied, he revved up the scooter and rode out of the plaza.
Two miles from town, he stopped the scooter by the side of the road. He had done enough for the night-too much even. He hid the scooter in the undergrowth by the side of the road while he walked deeper into the brush. When he thought he was far enough from the road, he relaxed, and immediately, his body convulsed. The contents of his stomach and intestines emptied itself out on the ground before him. He retched for about 2 minutes, leaving him exhausted and worn out. It was always like this, everytime he killed, he knew it was necessary, but it never made him feel any better. He knelt, using a tree to support himself, and offered his prayers to God. He believed in a God, but he knew, all that he had done could and would never be forgiven. His hands were too soaked with blood for any of his sins to be absolved, if at all.
Losing strength, he fought to stay conscious. He knew that he could not wait until morning to get as far away as possible. The retching had left him weak, and nauseated. He stumbled through the underbrush blindly in the dark, judging his general direction by the compass he always carried with him. According to the plan, he was supposed to be picked up about a kilometre from where he had left the scooter. “Just a little more..it'll all be done”, he told himself. It was always like this, he hated himself for the weakness, but at the same time, it reminded him of how he was human after all, and not just a mindless monster.
He heard the truck before he actually saw it, and stopped in his tracks. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, clearing the nausea he was feeling. He tensed then relaxed every muscle of his body, reminding himself it was his body, so he had total control. They must not see him this way, lest they think him weak, and unfit for the job. Five minutes later, he was aboard the back of the truck, bound for the private airstrip just outside the country, belonging to his previous employer. The deal had been that he would be provided with a means to get in, and a means to get out. No doubt, the employer might attempt to silence him to keep the truth from leaking, but the assassin was not afraid. He had a reputation of being invincible. After all, the first man who had tried to double cross him had been found dead, with nothing more than a bullet wound that had severed his heart from its surrounding muscles, and with 20 men dead around him. No one double crossed the Eraser and lived, his employers had learnt that by now.
Several hours later, he was in Zurich. From there, he would take the train to Germany, and then fly off, using his German passport, to the city of Auckland. One last job, and he'd take the rest of the year off, maybe spend some time searching for his ever elusive past, and his memory. He'd lost both at the beginning of his career as an assassin, 2 years, 3 months and 5 days ago. He estimated that he was about twenty five or thirty, judging from his looks, but he didn't know his birth date, let alone his birth month. All he could do was keep track of the time he could remember, since waking up in a plain, dim lit room one day, 2 years 3 months and 5 days ago. The men who had come to visit him after he woke up would divulge nothing of his identity, although he had asked, countless times. He'd begged, he'd raged, and once, he'd even tried physical violence, but they would say nothing. Always, they came, black suited with white shirts, and each time, they gave him a test. Sometimes, it was written, sometimes he had to memorise things and recall them, other times, he had to wrestle one of the men. He had tried resisting, simply not complying, but it was no use, as they would not feed him and simply stood there until he complied and did what they wanted. This went on for 29 days. He knew, because he had made it a point to count every single day once he realised he did not know anything about himself.
One day, they had come in, and there was no test. The man who seemed to be the leader among them simply said, “Join us.” And he had said yes. What else could he have said? If only to be let out of that cursed room, he knew that if they kept it up, he would eventually break anyway, staring at the same four walls every day and every night, never being let out, and the only fresh air he got was from a tiny slit which was meant to be a window, high enough that he would not be able to reach it, and open just wide enough to avoid the room being chokingly musty.
He shuddered as he tried to push away the thoughts of the room and that place. To his trained mind and body, that was the only thing that could bring him to physical shudders, though the horrors of his job left him wracked with guilt every time, he had begun to master it, and over time, although he could not help retching everytime he killed, he had managed to suppress that horrible, nagging feeling he got at the back of his mind, every time he took a life.
posted by ia3 @ 7:58 PM
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