Warning: Story involves cussing, violence, and death - for now, gore is debatable.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
"People respond when you tell them there is a great future in front of you, you can leave your past behind." – Joel Osteen
Uh-huh, I wish.
The lights are dimmed. The music is loud. The crowd is an ocean of faces, squished together, moving as one.
So no one sees them sneak off down the hall.
And what if your past doesn't leave you alone? As much as I'd love to agree with Osteen, that is not the case for me.
As for my "great future," well, there's the slight chance I won't have a future. How great does eternal darkness sound? Or being forever locked away?
They're against the wall, near the restrooms, his hands on her body.
Only part of her is into his lips on her own, the other part is well aware of the knife she's slipping out of her jacket.
His hand's on her bare thigh, moving up, under her dress.
She breaks the kiss, smiles as her arms slip around his neck.
I had lived with my granny up until she passed away a year or so back. That was when her past caught up with me in the form of a letter.
The Hood is an organization for killers. Well, assassins, really, but what's the difference?
My granny was a mentor of sorts, that's why she often disappeared during the day, leaving me to my own devises.
I didn't want any part of it after I found out. Quite convenient she only revealed her secret after death.
His eyes are lustful and then something flashes across his face – shock, pain, and then . . . nothing.
She slips out of his grip and he slumps to the floor, lifeless.
If I'm not an assassin then I bet you're wondering what I'm doing killing someone, right?
Just wait. All will be revealed.
Pulling the knife from his back, she wipes the blade on the skirt of her dress and smirks.
"You never stood a chance."
Once clothed in a blue jean jacket and a strapless black dress, she comes out of the alley clad in a white tunic over black leggings that disappear into knee-high boots.
A cloak the color of fresh blood hangs off her shoulders, the hood pulled over her head.
And as for my past being behind me, well, that's the thing about the past . . .
Sometimes it comes back and bites you in the ass.
She is a lone figure on the darkened sidewalk as she turns a corner . . .
. . . And stares down the barrel of a Beretta .92.
Or guns you down. . . .
Her eyes travel from the gun, up the arm, and to the face where a familiar pair of almost pitch-black eyes stare back.
"Wolf."