The routine is tiring. Wake up, kill, joke, bathe, repeat. An addicting cycle, endless per nature, monotonous by choice. I never truly knew how to do anything other than brawl, like a dog fighting for meat, and that made me gelid on the outside. Almost absolute zero. The carapace thickens around myself, squeezing the inner failure and veiling flaws while people sluggishly withdraw. The pseudo-comedian, arrogant assassin, they are all part of a character developed since the age of one, arguably since the day I was conceived. A rainy and chilly day, apparently, much to my mother's gargantuan distaste. What went wrong? The childbirth? The doctor dropped me head-first onto the floor? Nah, too easy. I was born almost savoring the curse, son of a mother without a lover, product of late sex without protection.
A curse.
She never masked it, never endeavored to deny and comfort the growing child. I found no love whilst settling down in what was supposed to be my nest. Never got any treats, any well-intentioned hand patting my head, no soft words to make me rest easier in my rudimentary bed. Never asked to be a rich kid, but the poverty of spirit was a killer. It wasn't long until I grew up, emotionless and irate, rather swashbuckling, piqued by violence so common in my home. My mother had a ritual, she passed right through my 'goodnight' comments and attempts at being endearing, sat down on a chair and constantly fathomed the correspondence. Then she raised in tears, yelled at me, slammed a door or two and drank halt bottle of whiskey to forget, never to forgive.
I was ten.
When people treat you badly, you actually believe it, you actually think you are that mistake, that one broken condom... In the next day I left school and got a job somewhere.
Payrolls came, I managed to endure sore for a bit and labor as a freak to even what my mother couldn't, never got a 'thanks', not even a 'son' mention. Not anymore. She was too good for it. For love. The last time she loved, I doomed her life nine months after...
An angry child with violent behavior, the only moment of my life I believe I got to smile truthfully was when the first beads of throbbing blood tainted my fist. A rebellious young man, a horrible record on police stations, an unloving mother, I coursed the path of the weak, mostly because no one ever taught me how to be strong. My paternal figure, my maternal figure... They were myself. And years sped, mom got even more addict, she tried cocaine and fell in a ceaseless loop of hysterical laughter and imbecilic mirages. I savored no mercy, did what any sane son would do back then... Ran away from an abhorrent life, performing my second great error in life.
I joined the goddamn army.
At first I was anxious, quite uneasy. Americans are swimmingly pissed off at everything, throwing bombs and bullets at targets for no reason. Mt trigger-happy demeanor sheltered among chaotic, cacophonous bloodshed, and fear resided my body. Metal projectiles pierced flesh with such an ease, I was flattered to be tagged as the unit's best shooter, panicked to affirm the only reason why I did go so well was due to video-games... And the fact I enjoyed taking lives. I founded a family, got drunk with them, saw most die. It was painful, a routine of fear and death, strong scents. After I firstly saw a man getting skinned alive and eaten, I accustomed. Obviously I often vomited and allowed myself to cry dry tears, sobbing and gulping over an entombed friend, yet it was better than expected.
There I encountered and befriended men marginally alike me, grew sympathetic in my own way, learnt the way of life. It was good, but I was called back for some war crimes, forced to settle down and stay low, got me a job as an assassin for hire. In one of the assignments, I met a girl, beauteous, sumptuous curves adorned by curled, blonde locks of perfumed hair, pale skin contrasting thoroughly with her rubicund dress, burgundy lips claiming my sight. Aside her, a needle. I reckoned the situation, same thing with my mom.
Say what you will, we humans act passionately sometimes, mostly for carnal instinct, but I didn't want to see more me's around the world. I aided her, kept her away from the drugs. The contract was kidnapping such a wondrous being, so why not keep it and kill the warlord who ordered me around? Guy was a dick. We fled to somewhere safe, I had cash, we traveled the globe. Her stare entranced with mine as lips coalesced, at imminence of a piquant peck. My arms tightened around her waist, she whispered she loved me, those captivating eyes reassuring every word.
I was blinded by those enthralling features, sinking in fondness as the sole veracity of my life lurked and brooded. I forgot to realize how much I had lost... And how much I had to lose...
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