Absconder

I was supposed to say something else.

I’m not into romance nor do I look forward to a happy ending. It’s not always just that. Happy endings aren’t perfect and some acceptance and love is required from both sides. Acceptance of the downfalls and love for, well, for the sake of love.

What a cliche.

But that is not me.

I don’t blame you for ever trying to help out but unfortunately, you’re looking at the wrong person. I’ve been self-reliant for far too long, left to do my own jobs and help others do theirs. I don’t look at it like the bundle that you do.

That’s where I began to understand how different my mentality is. You look as if the weight of the whole world is on your shoulders and you instigate anger, believing your childhood was taken away, forcing you to grow up too soon.

I do not know what that means.

The sky rumbles as I sit at the tip of the building’s roof, my feet dangling with the song of the rain.

Troubles will come and go and all you can do is smile about it. Crying has become old school and there will be very few to none who will genuinely care.

I’m glad to see the world as it is before my time and learn to deal with it. In fact, I dare say it’s not really a matter of concern. I prefer taking responsibility and watching it all unfold by my actions. My planning. It’s easier to be a child, being blind to all what happens and I’ve never learnt the easy way. I understand by experience and that’s okay. I might just press hot iron to my calf just to make it clear to me how hard am I to press before the burn goes from bad to worse.

I know what you mean by the mad twisted ways of the world we live in but what if I told you it’s all that I’m trained to see. It’s become so natural that if I showed you those ways, you’d probably jump off this roof that I sit on.

Not a bad idea. Maybe I could try jumping off. After all, the rain jumps off from the clouds, falling down this same sky. I stand on my tip toes, breathing the intoxicating scent of wet mud and hearing the trees dancing wildly.

My breathing escalates as I look down. Then looking up and seeing the other buildings, way down below is so exciting. I laugh out loud.

That’s what I am. A wild free animal.

My black tight pants and top barely allow it but I take one step ahead, followed by the next.

The rain hits my face. It feels like I left my stomach behind. My eyes aren’t close but they look around, searching for the landing. It’s a weird experience, this one, not something I’ve ever done before. The building is tall.

I was told to follow a man today by my contractor. This is what assassins do.

But I couldn’t do it. If I told my contractor that, he might’ve ruined me by calling me soft. This is what you did. I little slip of emotions can cost me my life.

The man did fight hard though. It looked like he had learnt before but then, almost all of us become someone else when the adrenaline kicks in. I’d call myself mad, jumping from ropes and zip lines. I almost felt sorry for him. He looked like he had a fighting chance, even with the bloodied face, cut up hands and a well punched abdomen. He looked like he had a fighting chance.

And this stupid thought and emotion made me leave him. What did I do? I cut my own side and told him to run.

Now you will wonder why I had to cut myself? Good question. To exhaust that extra adrenaline and get my brains to “normalcy”.

But my contractor wouldn’t believe that. He would not understand how I, one crazy assassin, could be defeated with a cut.

I wasn’t defeated by the cut. I was defeated long before that by you.

I almost reach the ground before I pull at the zip line. The rain is still falling fast and even though it’s way past midnight, people still walk across the street. Not that anyone could see me with the black haziness of the sky.

My back slams on the walls of the building. Shit. I had forgotten to catch myself and pulled too hard. What an idiot I have become. A stupid, writing-my-own-death type of idiot.

I prefer change. I can’t be like all the rest, with one of those perfect family pictures on the wall. It’s your dream. My dream is to run. Free.

And this is why I had to leave.

What a cliche.

 

~ A story by Nyara Avril. 

 

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