"Our souls are prisoners of the terror of death, and the day is beautiful."
                                                                     – Paulo Coelho


It was a cold and misty night in Venice.

Suddenly, I heard something that shook me out of my torpor.

Something that could only be adequately described as a match striking a surface frictionally capable of instant combustion, literally igniting your senses and knocking you back into reality, as it did with me.

It brought me back to the realisation that I was walking in one of the many narrow alleyways of Venice, engulfed by a suffusion of dark navy blue fog, the kind that comes a bit after midnight.

The perfect time for an act such as this, for the sound I heard was a harrowing scream that would rattle the ribcage from whence it emanated, and reverberate constantly, its chilling effects residually increasing with every bit of distance it covered across the surrounding walkways.

It was unlike anything I had heard before, but as consciousness streamed back into me, so did the acknowledgement of the fact that I had also heard (but not paid attention to) a brief, but distinctive and sharp sound that would cause the cacophony of clamour that I had heard.

A gunshot.

As I steadily became aware that the situation I was in was no ordinary one, I gradually took hold of my bearings, and my mind set racing with blazing questions, increasing in number as the seconds passed, too fast for any possible contemplation of answers. My heart was beating faster and faster in a wild attempt to keep up at the rate at which my mind was going.

And then it hit me.

The full effect of the scream and the gunshot, and what they possibly meant. It was an explosion of thoughts and emotion clashing against each other. I myself was unsure whether I was grappled by fear or dreadful intrigue. Regardless, they occupied me simultaneously, and drove me towards the source of the scream that continued to induce a heated conflict of fear, intrigue, racing thoughts, and ever-increasing heartbeats within me.

I wasn’t in control of my physical self, what with my mind and heart functioning at dangerous speeds, and so I extemporaneously headed for the answers my mind seeked, still unsure as to what element of fear or curiosity held control of me.

It felt like film noir, except everything that blurred past me from the dark waters splashing silently below to the cobblestone I tread on, to the surrounding walls of faded paint and moss on which my footsteps echoed to the sky above was bathed in blue, owing to the fog reducing visibility to ten feet at most.

The appearance of three figures marked my arrival at the scene of the crime. As I came to a stop, catching my breath, I gradually was able to make out further details of the three figures.

The first, on the left, was instantly recognisable as the very source of the scream that drove me into a frenzy of wild thought and mixtures of emotion. His hands still clasped around the sides of his face, now gone as pale as a ghost he could have possibly seen, it was clear that he was still held in immense shock. His bald head held these wide eyes that could not believe what they were seeing, being the man in the middle, now on his knees.

The second figure was apparently the target of the gunshot heard earlier, and I could faintly make out a stain on his chest, red with the blood that spread slowly through the front of his coat. An inaudible whisper escaped his lips, and he keeled over onto the hard, unwelcoming ground with a dull thud. Blood streamed from his lips onto the cold cobblestone, making its way through the cracks, slowly caking permanently as a sort of last attempt to make a mark on the world, as if everything in his past was worth nothing to be remembered.

The third figure was a tall, dominant vision of thick, grey winter clothing of all sorts, his arm outstretched with a Luger aimed downwards at the corpse that grew as cold as the surface on which it lay. He relaxed his arm and let it fall to the side of his confident stature, donning a trilby, trenchcoat, blazer, gloves, and a woollen mask with everything else covered in shadow. He paused for the briefest of moments, as if to ensure the death of the victim, and turned to walk away into the fog without so much as a second thought. From that very action I knew that he was no ordinary killer, but a highly skilled assassin who turned death into an ‘art form’. Judging by his motions, stance, and posture, it was imminently clear that this was most certainly not the first time he’d killed somebody. I could also tell from the fact that he killed only the victim, and paid no heed to the witness or I, the observer. The sheer coldness of it all, the timely pause implied that he was like some accurate machine designed to kill a specific target and no other, unlike some wild psychopath on a murderous rage who would have ensured that there would be no witnesses nor scream.

the mind of the observer

Even being right at the scene of the crime, staring at the lifeless corpse, the victim bleeding in some futile effort onto the cobblestone, my mind and heart did not rest.

They did not get their ultimatum.
They did not get their final bravado.
They did not get the answers they were seeking.

But instead, my mind began to form statements about as furiously as it formed questions.
Exclamations replaced inquisitive marks, and my mind was coming to conclusions of its own.
Something within me kept pumping blood and adrenaline as if to fuel the ever-expanding fire.
As I stared down at the victim, statements took the place of questions, collectively forming some sort of final setting or idea in my mind.

Death is a fact that all of us must accept, but in no sombre tone.

Death is no end, but a beginning.

Life is but a passing dream, with the void beyond being the true eternal state.

Death is an awakening into true purpose.

Death is nothing to fear, but something to revel in.

Death is the reintroduction to life, and is the grandest adventure that any of us shall ever face, with the reward being too sweet to let go, or for those on the path of sin, too horrid to depart from without it haunting you to no end.

Although I did not wish to take the place of the victim for my chance at this grand adventure, I do know that he gave me but a taste of things to come.

I am not ready as yet, and will probably never be like most others out there, but I eagerly anticipate what ‘reality’ would be if this dream seems so good, so worth ‘living’.


Death smiles at us all, and so I do the least I can.


I smile back.

the mind of the witness

I…

I am frozen.
I cannot speak.
I cannot move.
I cannot bring myself to do anything.
I cannot even think of something to do.

I am held in an embrace, a curse of this wretched evil.

The work of the devil.
How appropriate.
How aptly suited that he should create some immortal entity that would wreak vengeance and havoc upon the very creations of God.

Sins.
Sins that none of us can ever purge completely from our existence.
Sins that draw us into the clasps of that cold entity, closer and closer with each day.

And I see death’s latest ‘catch’.
Merely being in the presence of death literally leads me to imitate him in fear.
I am pale. I scream a scream that scars the ears of all those who hear it.

Death is evil, and no good shall come of it.

I am frozen.

It shall take me some day.
A curse of the devil that all men shall inevitably end their fates at the skeletal grasps of the reaper.

No matter.
I fear it.
But I’ve been born and baptised a Christian, and I’ll die one too.

I am nervous.
I fear the imminent.

And now I realize that I am but a pawn in death’s game. I have been played.
He mocks me.
He tells me that I shall be next, as he cleans his scythe, ready to take another.

I am frozen.

the mind of the victim

And this is it, this is where I die.

I had it coming to me. Of course, everyone does, but I had it coming in ways unexpected.
I have no regrets, no confessions to make.
I am settled.

I do, however, have a prayer.
I may be ready to accept death, but in the course of my time on this good earth, there are others who are not ready to accept the end of my sojourn.
They depend on me in one way or another.
Family, friends, those to whom I am indebted to.
I ask solely that if my life has served any good purpose at all, then the lives of those who require me still should pass through life a little easier than expected.

I have lived on the razor’s edge, and for this, others should not have to suffer for my dangerous lifestyle.

Such a way of life I have led, that I consider myself lucky to have died in such a way.

I have been considered ‘valuable’ enough to be assassinated.

You can do a lot to hurt a man, and one would be giving them a death that they don’t deserve.
Few have the choice as to how, but I am glad that I’ve been considered well enough as a sort of final courtesy that I should not die by poison in my food or sleep.
Or that I should not die by instantaneous means.
Or that I should not be stripped of the right of seeing who would eliminate me.
But in fact, I have been ‘gifted’ with, in view of others, is a man’s way to die.
I am shot in the front, and I have this time to list out my final thoughts.

The world’s going away from me in a blur, and the void beyond is seeming clear, yet at this point I try to search all my past in a hopeless attempt to pick out something that can be considered worthwhile, worth ‘living’ for.

The more noble though, look for something the world can remember them by.

And yet the fearless look not to the past, but to the future.

I am content, and at peace with the world as I let it go.

This is my stop, folks, I’ll catch you all later.

the mind of the assassin

I’m not one for words, so I’ll get to the point.

I’m not one who believes in destiny either, but should others take such superstitions into play, then I apologise for breaking those.

However I see death as plain as any other means of occupation.

Death has a value not to those who receive it, but to those who deal it.

I am a dealer who plays this little gambling game.

Unwitting players lose their lives to the discretion of my employers.

Remember, the house always wins.