Young Writers Society

So it was true.

He looks at the tiny form sprawled in the dirt. Her hair is matted, her eyes closed blissfully. She could be sleeping.

He knows she isn’t.

He isn’t usually an emotional person. He’s seen enough of these— things— to remain unaffected for the most part. Usually he gets what he needs and gets out. That's the only way, he’s told himself. The only way to survive in this world. It has worked. He is alive, he is breathing, he is unaffected.

But she is dead.

There should be tears. He should be appalled at the gash that adorned her temple. He should touch her blond curls, mourning the loss of someone so young. He should fall to the ground in grief at the senseless loss of life.

Should …

But he doesn’t. He can’t. He has to get what he needs and leave.

Carefully, slowly, agonizingly he lifts up the hem of her Hello Kitty shirt. Her stomach was bruised, beaten from the pale white that her mother had thought was perfect to hideous shades of black and blue.

There. The scar runs up the length of her right side. With practiced precision, he slid the knife along the line. He spreads the opening with a gloved finger, like every other time. Only this is different than every other time.

He should be weeping.

He can feel it. Just like all the others. A small disk. He grips the edge in his fingertips and pulls, slowly. It comes out with a pop, the attachment to her body’s systems severed.

He would take the disk back to his home and study it, just like all the others. He would remember that he should be sickened by what was on it. Remember what it was like to be human.

He doesn’t think he can be human, not after…

With the bloody disk safe in hand, he turns to leave the small patch of woods. The park is deserted this late at night. Of course it is.

These things are always planned so perfectly.

He is nearing his car when the shaking starts, finally. The blood on his hands is more than literal, marring his heart and his mind with its gruesomeness. He needs to wash it off.

It’s the first human thought he’s had in months. Years. Lifetimes.

The blood is gone when he finally gets in the car. The disk is clean, as well. His heart is a dark, tainted hole.

It never quite hits him. He never lets it really sink in. What he’d just done. What he’s about to do.

She was his daughter.

At least, she was when he still felt human enough to have one.

The car ride home is silent. The engine barely hums beneath him, and each breath he takes is lost in the drone of white noise. He pulls into a paved driveway without ever remembering the turns he took to get there. The heavy front wooden door opens with a muted whoosh, disturbing the stillness that lies behind it. His newborn son will be upstairs. His wife should still be asleep. Her lips will part with each exhale; her finger will rest at the corner of her mouth as if she is thinking. He’s always loved the sight of his sleeping wife. It has brought him peace, comfort, in the middle of turmoil.

He doesn’t think he can look at her tonight. Tonight has changed everything.

His well-worn shoes are silent against the white tiled kitchen floor. He opens the small panel partially hidden by the bulk of the refrigerator. He presses his palm against it more out of habit than anything.

“Welcome, Agent 3217.” The electronic voice of the computer grates against his nerves more than it ever has before. The well-oiled sound of the door opening in the floor behind him nearly sends him running.

But instead he makes a calculated about face that puts him face to face with the entrance to his alternate identity. It is twenty steps down to the basement floor in a house that shouldn’t have a basement. He shouldn’t own all the things down there. For once he wanted to leave all of this behind and just be Marcus Bresly. But he couldn’t. He hadn’t been Marcus Bresly in over ten years.

His feet know exactly where on the steps they should land without him telling them. They know the way. They take the steps one at a time, his brain kicking and screaming the whole way. They lead him to the large computer that fills most of the space on one wall. They make him sit in the padded seat in front of it.

For a moment routine takes over. He takes the disk out of his pocket and slides it into the slot on his right. He feels a sickening moment of excitement as the images load before him. Strands of DNA spiral down the screen, and for a moment he looks forward to studying them for hours on end, looking for the things that made this person different. The things that made her dangerous.

His eyes scan the screen for anything obvious. Not finding anything, his gaze rests where it normally does, on the computer generated image in the upper left hand corner.

Everything grinds to a halt as he stares into the eyes of his daughter.

The scream of agony erupts from his chest before he can stop it. He lets it come, knowing no one will hear him down here. His hands rake through his hair, pulling out clumps that are too weak to hold on. His tears feel like acid as they drip into the scratches on his face. She fought. She was always such a fighter.

And that’s when he brakes.

In rage, he lifts the chair off its place on the floor and hurls it at the computer, disappointed when it doesn’t break like he hoped it would. His stumbles to the locked drawer in the small desk behind him. His hands find and use the key without him really trying.

There. There is peace and justice and revenge. The Desert Eagle given to him as a five year loyalty gift. He lifts it to his chest and feels an immediate sense of comfort just holding it. This will end it.

He walks up the steps with much more ease than he walked down. Years of training keep him silent as he walks back through the kitchen. It’s a short walk to his bedroom.

There is his wife. She never really knew him when she married him. He hadn’t really loved her at the time. She had been a cover, just like everything else in his life. Sure, he’d grown to care deeply for her, but love? The empty bottles of scotch said he didn’t.

Her finger rests on the corner of her mouth, like she is thinking. Maybe in her sleep, she knows.

He grabs the pillow off his side of the bed and presses it to the barrel. It is surprising how easy it is to pull the trigger. She doesn’t even wake up.

Only one more stop.

He is almost giddy as he climbs the stairs to reach his son’s bedroom. Maybe he is mad. Maybe he always has been.

Little Kolby. His thumb is stuck securely in his mouth, framed by the chubbiest cheeks.

It is harder to lift the gun this time. This time his finger fights his efforts to pull the trigger. Something holds him back.

He can redeem you.

His daughter’s voice echoes so clearly in his head that he jumps. One quick scan of the room reveals that she isn’t actually there.

He can right your wrongs. He can redeem you.

Maybe she’s right. Filled with a sudden urgency, he runs back down to the kitchen. He will need the sharpest knife they have. He grabs a steak knife from the knife block. As a last minute thought he grabs a bottle of vodka from the fridge.

He pours the vodka onto the knife as he climbs the steps again. It would ruin everything if the cut got infected.

In only a moment he is back at his son’s side. Without taking time to think, he presses the knife to Kolby’s skin, tracing the recent surgical scar.

Kolby’s screams are lost in his concentration. The layers of flesh split easily. The blood flows out faster that he would like, but he reaches the small disk embedded in his son’s side. It has already attached itself, but with a small tug, it comes free. Some part of him notices that Kolby has passed out, but he can’t take time to care. He needs to finish this quickly.

He rushes down to his basement. He only has a few minutes before Kolby bleeds out. He puts the disk into the secondary slot beside the one that still holds Kolby’s sister’s disk. With fingers flying over the keyboard, he transfers everything his son will ever need: information, tactics, secrets, and a brief message from his father. Lastly, he sets the timer.

Getting all of this information too soon could kill him.

He rushes back up to his son’s room. Kolby is still unconscious. He barely twitches when the disk is slid back into place. It’s done.

With the old sewing kit from his wife’s things, Marcus recloses the opening in Kolby’s side. It will heal.

Kolby will redeem you.

His daughter’s voice chants that promise to him as he returns to his basement. He feels weak, yet free at the same time.

Kolby will redeem you.

He picks up the chair from where it lays on its side and sets it back in its rightful place. Slowly, he lowers himself into it. His eyes travel across the computer screens as a grim smile lights his face.

Kolby will redeem you.

He looks down to his hand, where his gun still resides.

Kolby will redeem you.

He looks once again to the computers, to the only part of his life that ever really mattered. His hand seems to rise of its own accord, resting the barrel against his temple. No one will find his body. They’re too good at covering these things up.

Kolby will redeem you.

His finger rests calmly on the trigger.

Kolby will redeem you.