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Wednesday Writing Exercise

  Time for this:

15 minutes.

20 minutes.

Seriously just a half hour.  I swear.

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Revenge for a fallen lover: It was the oldest reason in the world to become an assassin.. or mercenary.. whatever you choose to call someone like me. The kind of ‘scum’ that hangs around in all kinds of seedy places where normal people didn’t dare go, even when the sun was out. And yet I would be the kind of person you’d look at and think, on first glance, that I was so much like you; that I was desperate and hanging around in this place because I needed someone. That I, like you, didn’t belong in this seedy place either..

And in some ways I guess you’d be right. I do need you.. I need you to come find me, hire me, PAY me and then let me disappear back into the shadows like I’m supposed to. My reasons for this job are my own, and if you knew what was good for you, you’d never try and pry into my life before all of this. Frankly so much of that life before this one feels more like a dream than the nightmares which haunt me every time I fall asleep. It’s hard to believe there was a time when I was ever happy and rather quite gentle, complacent, unobtrusive..

That’s a distant memory now. The love for which I rage is long gone.. And now, here I sit, penning some snobby, wanton autobiography in this almost windowless motel room bathroom. I guess because I think– I feel this is my time to die.. I don’t plan on coming back to retrieve this.. And even if I did, well, it’s about time someone people realized that sometimes, behind a brutal, blood-thirsty, stealthy killer is an aching sorrow that drives them to do what they do. That doesn’t exactly give anyone a just cause for murder, but then again, who really gives a damn what you think?

Anyway, where was I? Oh right, my Mary Poppins, Little House on the Prairie life before all of this.. Right, well let’s see. I’ll spare you the blithering nonsense about a painful childhood filled with arguing parents that finally culminated in a long, bitter divorce and custody battle. Lots of children go through that and they don’t wind up like me.

Sure, most of them tend to be fucked up in some way, but that’s not what happened in my case. My parents, myself, and my two younger siblings grew up in a rather plan little house somewhere in the English countryside back around 2176 or so. Least that was the date listed on my Certificate. Anyway, my mother was American– well, half American, half Cherokee or Blackfoot or something. Back in her college days she traveled abroad and met my father at a boarding house where he too, was traveling about.

A handful of months and a whirlwind courtship later, they married. It wasn’t for ten years afterwards that I was born. The two activists and travelers couldn’t seem to sit still long enough to fuck, let along procreate. It wasn’t until my father came down with a particularly bad flu in the fall of ’75 that they finally got around to REALLY being intimate and having kids. Of course kids were like dogs, or cats, or an action figure collections: you couldn’t jut stop at one. So there we were, a little happily family, growing up in in the English countryside. Close enough to the city to enjoy it’s entertaining sides from time to time, but not be choking down smog when we went to bed either.

A handful of crushes throughout various levels of school made me realize a couple very important facts. I was lesbian, but I couldn’t stand to hang around most girls. What a fucking conundrum to say the least. Sure there were, what you would call, the ‘fakes’. The girls who oozed sex and walked around like fucking queen bee goddesses and shit. And then there were the girls who were so fucking annoying that not even their looks or personality could make them tolerable. I wish I could explain that better, but anyone who reads this must surely know a person or two like that. The people who seem like they’re nice, but the moment you get to know them, the more you want to wring their neck, but somehow that translates into you somehow wanting to be best friends with them.. Yeah, those people.

Fuck. Now where was I– And yeah, that got of red around the pages, that’s not blood (not yet anyway) fucking candle wax dripped all over me and onto the paper when I whacked it with my arm. Lovely.

Moving on.

Following my ‘regular’ education, I enrolled at the best university I could afford and said good bye to my ho-hum everyday life in the country and moved onto city living. It was while I worked for my degree that I met my first real girlfriend. We dated for about seven months. For a little while there I thought I had really gotten lucky and found ‘the one’ until I came back to our flat and found her fucking her best (male) friend on our bed.

Of course that was the end of that… Although not before a couple more months of revenge fucking around with her. Ha.. Revenge, guess it started early and I never realized it. At the time of course I wanted to get back at her and her new ‘man’ for what they put me through. It involved a lot of late night calls and coded text messages.. A lot of playing coy, and acting all forgiving and lovey dovey; making her seriously doubt what she had with this new walking cock of hers.

That all ended abruptly when I met my next girlfriend. The thing I had with her only lasted about three months, but it was sufficiently enough to get over the first bitch, and make her so jealous I thought she really did turn green for a minute there.

Anyway, I’m not going to bore anyone with all the tony, inconsequential details of my life. Especially since I’m running out of ink in this fucking pen. Anyway, while I have it, let me sat that it wasn’t until after I finally got a degree and moved into my own flat, by myself, with just a potted plant and a black lab companion, that I FINALLY met THE person I knew I loved beyond all others and who was, in the end, the reason I became the thing I am today. The gun-toting, shadow-lurking assassin for hire. Probably about the furthest thing away from what I ever thought I’d wind up.

Shi   ucking pen.. .. iI’ll finish ths up tomorow when I have a better pen and more time to think. I’m not going anywhere just yet.

– Ez.

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