Young Writers Society

You Don’t Want Me in Your Attic

1

The lashes come quick and with force. One after another they hit me, and just when I think it is over, the whip hits again. The worst part about the whole situation is that I know I deserve it. This is my fault. I totally asked for this.

Of course, this isn't the first time I have had to go into "Correctional Therapy". Well, that is what they call it. Let me explain a bit more. They call it "Correctional Therapy" when they lead you into an all gray room with black accents and beat the shit out of you in various ways. They do this until they feel you have been sufficiently "put in your place". Then, they send you on your way. As I mentioned before, this is my fault, but it is also not the first time this has happened. (Hell, it’s probably not even the hundredth.) Let’s put it this way, I know how to get in trouble.

This time I defied orders, but before I am judged too harshly, I only defied orders because the orders were stupid. The Agency wanted no survivors, and I felt that children should be spared because they were innocent. So I saved the children. The kids are safe and I feel no regrets. I will always stand by this choice (even if I bleed out).

The whipping has stopped but now they intend to drown me. (They have run out ideas over the past couple of years.) Their method of drowning works this way: they tie you to the walls of a clear cylinder and fill it with water until you pass out, then they drain it, revive you, and repeat. I, as of right now am too tough to break, and they know it. They would love to be able to just do away with me, (I am a liability and a bitch) but they can't because they need me. I am the best they got. I am the best killer, fighter, and rebel in all of history, but I am not brainwashed like they wish I were.

I am twenty-five years old. I am an Agent, I am a fighter, I am a killer, I should be dead, and my name is 221. Allow me to explain what an Agent means. It means I am part of what is called "The Agency". Anyone in this Agency is a type of superhuman, commonly called Protectors. Now, I get how much of an moron that makes me sound, so I should tell you that we are a secret that not many people know about. A Protector was not designed in a lab, but is the product of the perfect gene combination. We are technically a different species but not really so I consider myself human (just more advanced). Our brains work differently, and our body is and more advanced. We are smarter, quicker, stronger, and other shit like that. Most even give up feelings of compassion, sorrow, sympathy, and other emotions by the time they graduate from their training.

I, on the other hand, chose to keep all my emotions, which is why the Board of Protection hates me so much. My emotions are known as my only weakness. I feel guilt and empathy, so I cannot kill as easily as they would like. I disagree; I feel that my emotions give me an advantage because I can act as a normal person (or as normal as I can get). Normality can get you just as far as abnormality when dealing with life, and sometimes a good mix of both can do wonders.

They begin strapping me to the inside of the tank, and then slowly they start filling it. My body becomes paralyzed as the water enters my lungs. I prepare my body and mind for endurance. Then, everything stops. I peek through the glass and I see the room in organized chaos (my favorite kind of chaos). I immediately break through the restraints right before the man conducting the torture takes a rod to the glass, and it shatters all over the black steel floor. “Get your things and any weapons you deem necessary,” Orders the Director, “You’re going on a mission”.

This means that the Agency has no clue what their next move is and they have exhausted all their resources. Whenever they put me up to a task it means they need the best to ensure no evidence will be left behind. They will need this particular execution done with great skill and precision, so they turn to me. I walk out of the room in a brisk pace, hands by my side.

They teleport me back to my fairly large house in the middle of nowhere Massachusetts, where I walk into the basement to the farthest wall. This particular wall is grey, and I place my ring finger on the small chip in the paint. A needle emerges and pricks my finger, allowing the processor in the wall to confirm that my DNA is really mine. The left corner of the wall opens up to reveal a large winding staircase leading into the ground. I walk all the way down the stairs, and then through the large steel doors at the bottom. I enter the large white and gray room and inhale. It smells wonderfully like metal and disinfectant.

“Welcome back,” Greets my computer system in a metallic voice. He does my research and regulates who comes in and who goes out. He also keeps inventory on all the things stored there. “Open drawer J31,” I commanded my computer. I pull out my black suit, it is full body and skin tight. It is made of an extremely thin and flexible metal. The whole thing is covered in a subtle repeating Xs. There are hundreds of places to hide sedatives, bullets, knives, paper clips, and anything else that is moderately dangerous. I start loading it up will all of these items and more. I am ensuring that anything that happens during this mission will be easily handled. I am always prepared. I swing my bow and arrows onto my back which is followed by a large gun. I pull on black combat boots, and put knives and a few more bullets into them (all I can say is that it’s a good thing I don’t have to go through an airport).

My computer breaks the silence by telling me that a file has been sent to me. “Open it,” I reply simply. I already knew that it was the information about the person I am to kill. This has always been the worst part of my job (to me anyway). This is the part where I have to read about the person’s life and look at their picture. This is the part where I realize that they are a real, living person who has people who care about them. Lucky me. I get to read about the life I am going to end. I turn to look at the information on one of the big computer monitors.

I am stunned to see the name on the screen. Laren Voxford. God no. Anybody but Laren Voxford. Of all people to kill. He was the only reason I was able to keep my mental stability during training. He helped me keep my sanity in tact, but unfortunately his deteriorated over the years. One Correctional Therapy session in particular pushed him over the edge when they began to draw blood. He ran from the room destroying everything in his path. I can still remember the horrible high pitched wails echoing through the building. They didn’t sound like the strong, trustworthy, and composed man I knew. It was those screams that showed me just how strong I have to be, because that could have been me. But it wasn’t.

The Agency hasn’t been able to find him since, even though he sent various threats, threatening to expose the Agency, of course (they weren’t overly worried because one in particular had a clause on an anteater metaphor). It looks like they finally found him. I knew that eventually they would and when they did and execution would be called for. I just never imagined I would be the one to do it.

I don’t want to kill him, but I know I have to. There really doesn’t seem like much of an option. With his threats becoming more frequent, and him having actual proof then it is necessary that I do what is best for everyone (except for Laren).  Honestly, he probably an entirely different person from the friend I remember (with losing his mind and all).

I might as well just read the rest of the file and see what Voxy has been up to during his “retirement”. Also, it will be helpful to think of ways to kill him before I find him (and where to find him). I scan over the file:

A GENCY

Name: Laren Voxford

Gender: male

Date of Birth: 01/07/2042

Age: 28

Blood Type: type B

Height: 5’10”

Weight: 160lbs

Shoe Size: 10.5

Eye Color: blue

Skin Tone: light-tan

Hair Color: brown

Identifying Markings: birthmark- left thigh

Education: college (art)

Occupation/s: artist/protector

I Q: 117

Agent Number: 204

Protection Ranking: 953/2157

Date of Training Graduation: 05/23/2062

Date of Secession: 04/16/2065

Reason of Secession: mental instability

Location: unknown

Updated Location: 52 Forest Dale Rd, Goshen Vermont

Mental Stability: low

Threat Status: high; category black

Current Status: execution required

Signature:

Fighting Description: Known for classic fighting; mostly physical strength. Preference to bare hand fighting as opposed to weapon usage. An average of 40% mission success rate.

 

Director’s Signature:

I still have no idea how to kill him. How am I suppose to kill a person who is not entirely “with it”? Out of all the years I have known him, I haven’t been able to see his mental downfall. At this point, I can’t imagine he has much to lose. I have killed many kinds of people, but never one of my best friends who happens to be out of his mind (honestly; anteater metaphor). Usually I can find a way to kill a person from the information The Agency gives me, but there isn’t much personal stuff in here. In a situation like this one, when I can’t find a weakness, I usually just go with the flow. I will go to his location and assess the situation when I get there.

I exit from the file and stand up. There is no need to write down the address, because I will remember. I take a deep breath before punching the address into the teleporter. I hear the familiar buzz of atoms being rearranged and I close my eyes.

I open them once again to find myself in the backyard of a cabin in the middle of nowhere (shocker, I am in Vermont. The most exciting place on earth). I turn around in a circle to assess my surroundings and I see nothing but trees, (once again, a huge shocker). At least there will be no witnesses to deal with (those are the worst). I look up and see a flash of movement in the window. The back of his head is to me, and he is painting a picture of what looks like a human heart (not bad, but kind of ironic). He is in the very top floor. It is probably the attic (super cliche for an art studio).

This is the worst. I sometimes sympathize with those Agents that gave up their emotions. I don’t want to do this, I really don’t. If there is anyway I could avoid this I would, but I just can’t seem to find a way. My heart sinks to my stomach knowing that I am losing a friend today. Well, it is time to pull my head out of my ass and get to business (thinking about it only makes it worse).

I walk to the side of the house and begin to jam the sharp finger tips of my suit into the wall. Using my boot to push me up and get some traction, I slowly begin scaling the wall. I have to be very silent because he may be crazy but he still has the hearing of an Agent. I climb through the window and realize I am standing directly behind him. I hold my breath in fear that he will hear me, but I stand there like a moron for like five minutes (honestly, I am the best killer in the world yet I can’t make my feet move). My heart falters when his voice fills the air.

“I know you’re here.”

Shit! What the hell should I say? At this point I might as well just say something stupid, because I already look like an idiot.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to say. I haven’t seen you in forever.”

He turns around and looks almost shocked when he sees my face (probably didn’t expect it to be his friend who is here to kill him). He sighs and speaks again.

“You’re here to kill me, aren’t you?”

“No of course not!” I tried to say this with an offended tone (didn’t work).

“Please. 221 showing up unexpected in your attic never means anything good.”

He laughed slightly and I almost believe he is the same person I once knew (not a good idea 221...)

“Want a drink?”

Okay, it is definitely not a good idea to take a drink from the man you’re planning to kill.

“No thanks.”

“You can sit down, you know.” He said while motioning to the filthy couch. I sit on the stain riddled sofa (only slightly worried that a rat might bite my ass).

“If you aren’t here to kill me, then what did you come for?”

“Just visiting a friend.” God, why can’t I say something intelligent?

“Come on hun, we both know that’s not true.” There is a playful tone in his voice and he sits down a little bit too close. I know what he wants, I know his weakness (it might have taken me a while, but I got it).  

I lean forward and kiss him.

He seems shocked, but kisses me back after a second, proving that I was right (duh). He is so gentle I almost forget why I am kissing him.

I discreetly pull a knife out of the pocket on my hip and grasp it tight. I raise it to his back and stab him (again and again and again). I feel him suck his breath in while my knife is making contact with his back. He falls to the floor, and I put my foot to his chest forcing him flat on the ground.

He lies on the floor with my foot on his chest. I pull my black sword out of its place on my back and hold it over his heart (a sword will kill quicker than the knife, and make less more noise than a gun). I glance at his painting and then his face. I am reminded of what I am about to do. He stares up at me with glassy eyes. I can see that he knows I deceived him. I can see that he has given up, he knows how this will end. He gives me a slight head nod. This is what I was holding out for; the approval. I close my eyes, take a breath, and impale his heart with my sword.

I pull it out watching the blood crawl out of his chest and soak his shirt. It is done. I killed him. I don’t know why I am surprised. I knew I would do it. It had to be done. I wipe my sword on his couch cushions (what the hell, it was filthy already, and I put my sword back in its clasp and walk downstairs. I walk out the front door and wonder what to do next. I don’t really want to go home. Maybe I will try that new restaurant that just opened up (It has a lovely view of the county jail. I love the sound of prison chains while I eat).

2

It is only when the older waitress asks if I want anything else that I realize I have been glaring into my coffee for the past ten minutes (and glaring is an understatement more like eye murdering). “No” I reply after a short hesitation. I don’t exactly feel like dessert at the moment (which is totally weird, for me especially). I ask for the bill and take out my wallet.

“Hun, are you alright?” The woman asks as she hands me the receipt.

“Oh, um yeah I am fine.” She just raises an eyebrow at me and nods. I find it interesting that she isn’t pressing me for answers, is just that she doesn’t care enough to try or is my distress that obvious (I really hope she doesn’t care).

“If you feel like talking about it I have all night” (and….. she cares. I can’t believe I thought she would leave me alone.) I have to tell her something to avoid looking rude.

“No, really I am alright it just kind of hit me that I will never see my friend again.”

“Oh dear! I can't imaging how that would feel. Did they move away?”

“Um… something like that.” (okay so that was a complete lie but honestly, I can’t tell the truth).

“It might be hard but I am sure you will be able to see your friend again. You can always visit” (okay, this lady is useless).

“It isn’t that easy.” I say a bit harder than I had intended. I quickly put down the tip, step off of the stool, grab my wallet and walk out (I only slightly feel bad that I didn’t look at the lady or even bother remembering her name. She was annoying me.)

I had changed before I went out to eat so my suit and weapons are in a nearby motel room (I really hope they didn’t try to clean it). It is close enough to walk to and I am enjoying the cold  air. As I start getting colder I am pulled out of my daze and back into reality and reality is that I killed my friend. But then I realize that it isn’t just Laren that I’ve killed. I have killed probably close to two hundred (not all of them were my friends and most deserved it in one way or another). I shake it off, I had to do it right?

I open up the room door and it is dark and cold inside. My soul suddenly felt the same way. Is this what guilt feels like? I suppose it could also be regret. I shouldn’t feel this way, this isn’t how a killer reacts to the death of their victims. The curtain blows softly allowing gray moonlight to shine into an even grayer room. I sit down on the floor and hug my knees, I feel as if my skin is closing in on me and attempting to suffocate my soul. I actually think my soul would like that.

I can’t do anything, he is dead and he is going to stay dead. I usually have control over every situation but I think I lost that right when I killed my friend. I could always kill myself I suppose, but there isn’t much use in that. It isn’t like he will be waiting for me in the afterlife with an "apology accepted" cake. Although it does seem as if he willing me to die. 

I look towards the bottle of prescribed sleeping pills. They help with night terrors and paranoia. Maybe if I just took a few I could pass out for a while and wake up when this guilt is gone.