When you’re stupid and seven years old, sitting in some molding, mildew, shack of a classroom, and you’re asked what you want to be, you don’t tend to be correct. For example, when my teacher asked me while looking at me with her best attempt at an inspirational gaze, I responded, “A ship captain!” Anyways, I am currently an assassin, and worse, I’m not even an assassin on a ship. Honestly, it’s been a good week for my seven year old self if I see as much as water in the form of rain. Luckily for me, it is raining today. The pitter patter on the tiled roof does wonders for concealing my footsteps.

Not that they needed concealing.

The man inside was already dead.

I catch a glimpse of my gaze in the reflection of my blade, the blood getting carried away by the rain and dripping onto the roof shingles, down the gutters, and into the bustling city below. The moonlight makes my eyebags look heavy, I think.

I make my way off the roof and into the city quickly, and by the time that I get home, my shoes are squelching and I have to peel off every article of clothing before I feel even remotely dry.

I sit by the fire in a blanket, absorbing the warmth. A log crackles, drops, and sends a plume of sparkling ash my way. As I stare into the flames, Buttersnap rubs her head against my knee and lets out a misleading meow. She doesn’t actually want you to pet her. I suspect she just wants an excuse to hiss at something.

“Catch another mouse today?” I hum.

Buttersnap licks a paw and eyes me suspiciously. I think it’s in her nature to always be weary. She’s a black cat after all, and my neighbors weren’t fond of the back luck she brought crashing down upon our apartment complex. I turn back to the flickering flames, but I can’t help but listen to the content noises of tiny footsteps and laughter that seep in from the apartment below me. I find myself wishing that the fire crackled a bit louder.

I eventually turn myself in for the night, wrapping myself in the blanket, marching past a trash bin of crumbled flyers, past a cabinet full of money I couldn’t seem to find reason to spend, and into my bedroom. Moonlight pours in through the window, illuminating the barren walls and an empty bed. I plop down beside Buttersnap and stare at my ceiling.

“How do you do it, Buttersnap?”

She makes a noise full of contempt and she kneads her paws into my comforter.

“Yeah, I suppose.”

The pattering of rain turns into a rumbling storm, and I fall into a restless sleep.

The sound of a particularly aggressive foghorn wakes me up, and I immediately want to sink back into my bed. Fog is one of those things that ought to make my job a great deal easier, but in reality just makes people more cautious.

I roll out of bed and into my living room, leaning down to pick up a few letters that have been shoved beneath my front door. I just shook my head as I rifled through them. Catalog… ad… mark…

I take a letter opener and slice open the envelope containing my next mark.

Dr. Monek of Livingstone. I scrunch my nose. Didn’t much enjoy Livingstone, but I’d have to deal.

The journey to Livingstone was exactly how I remembered it: painfully bumpy and filled with people who smelled like they had trouts for tongues. Livingstone is less a town and more a port with a few extra amenities. They did have a school there, but the education focused almost solely on gutting fish and learning how to survive treacherous waters. It gave all the kids pretty impressive knife skills, though.

I placed a few coins in the hands of the carriage driver, and disappeared into the crowd.

The buildings hadn’t changed a bit since I had been here last, and I was confident that I could find my way to Dr. Monek’s office with my eyes closed.

Sure enough, I found my way there without issue. Dr. Monek had actually been my doctor when I was younger – but, even at my age, I could see why someone would want him dead. He was kind enough, but seemed to have an inclination for getting involved in groups that didn’t do him any good. After some thinking, I decided to kill Dr. Monek on a Sunday. He wouldn’t have any clients that day; plus, he wasn’t a religious man, so during church mass seemed the obvious solution.

Sunday morning, as church bells ring through the winter’s air, and as I watch Dr. Monek write a careful letter through his top floor window, I ponder whether I actually want Dr. Monek dead. He’d never done anything to me. Plus, there was no real monetary effect whether he lived or died. I already had enough money to be comfortable for longer than I planned on being alive.

As I slowly pick the lock to his back door, I continue to think about this. As I slowly climb the flight of stairs, I think about it some more. I pause; then, I grab the handle of my knife, and open the door.

It is over quickly.

The man slumps against me and warm blood runs between my fingers. I’m in the process of gently laying him down when a woman’s comforting voice floats in from a nearby room. I startle. Again, her voice says something indistinguishable.

I falter; I drop the man and he lands with a grotesque thud.

I know that voice.

There’s footsteps coming. I need to run.

But there’s something wonderful in that voice.

“Come on, Shawn,” she says again.

My mother has that voice. My brother has that name.

The door cracks open and blood pools around my feet. There they stand. My mother, a bit wiser. My brother, a bit stronger. I haven’t seen either in five years. My mother begins to scream.

“No, no, no –” I stutter out, “This isn’t – I’m not, this isn’t willing –”

Shawn’s face goes white and I’m fairly sure he’s going to pass out.

Blood stains my face, loved ones looking at me warily as I stare back at them menacingly.

“This is who I am, and there is no need to be afraid,” I say, stepping forward. My voice is quivering and something about admitting it aloud makes me wish to cry.

Before I know what is happening, my older brother is charging towards me, and I make the conscious decision to not fight him. He takes his own knife and when I look up at him I realize that his decision is already made.

You know when you cut yourself? Not a normal cut, but that real bad sort where it doesn’t even hurt, and your only indication that it happened is the blood? And then you pause, blood seeping or spurting out of you, and you realize that maybe this is bad, and that, for the first time in a long time, you’re faced with the fact that you’re just some fleshy meatbag roaming around the world and that, apparently, you’re capable of dying? Well, as I look down and I see the handle of my brother’s blade sticking out my body, I’m feeling that sort of feeling.

I meet my brother’s gaze, but he doesn’t even glance down to see where the knife has landed.

I fall to the floor, landing beside Dr. Monek. I’m not sure whose blood is whose, but footsteps are scrambling around me and the church bells are going off in the distance and, somewhere, I think I can hear birds singing. I do my best to focus on their lazy tune as the world grows dark.