Summary: "He tried to stab me four fucking times, but he couldn't get very far with both his pointer and thumb finger sawed off…nenorocitule"

English Translation of phrases mentioned in Romanian: "Fata Nebuna"=Foolish girl

"Nenorocitule"=Fuckin Dumbass

Luck.

Dumb fucking luck.

I really wasn't the kind of person to believe in luck.

I was supremely unlucky in most regards.

How could I believe in something that has failed time and time again?

I had more reason to believe in mathematics, probability, Einstein's theory of relativity. Never luck though. I believed in magic, in the swaying of the April trees or a really good kiss underneath an Italian veranda where only the street post and mosquitos can catch glimpses of our shadows.

That's what made me such an effective criminal because it was not about getting the kill, it was the thrill of the chase. It had been so long since I had to take out one of her many marks on my list in a beat up notebook on my bedside table. When I was killing United States consultants and informants, I was the best of the best, one of the most highly trained killers that her homeland had come to know. My father had made me in his likeness, A machine, A killer. You don't need luck on your side when you have the skill of the trade in your blood. You don't need luck when you execute your first mark at the age of 12. You don't need luck when you can charm pretty much anyone to get them to do as you wished. Killing was a sport.

Turning marks was never about winning or that idea, it was always about the thrill of the chase. I liked being rewarded for her efforts. Even as a child, I would stay in the forest for days hunting the nearest wildlife so that the family would be able to eat deer skin for a couple days so as to not perish from starvation. I had always been resourceful and a skilled archer as it was easiest to kill pheasants or small rabbits as well as deer in my spare time when I wasn't training alongside father. As I caught the nostalgic smell of rabbit stew wafting through the vents of my room, I jolted out of bed as Sister Gertrude was cooling my body temperature down with a white cold towel on my clammy forehead. Sister wore the typical black and white robe and had a wooden cross as a necklace around her neck. She had a black hood over her head so as to not reveal too much of her features, but from what I could see, she had bluish green eyes, olive toned skin and a brown mole atop her right cheek. Crows feet decorated the corners of her eyes as if they had seen others come and go when they were back to optimal health. Her eyes told the story, her face wouldn't dare. She wore a worried expression on her face and her eyebrows raised in alarm as I attempted to get up but my knees betrayed me and buckled underneath my weight. I gazed around at the shabby room as sunlight streamed into the otherwise pitch black, cold room. I began to take in some of the details around the room as I caught my breath. My bed was that of a mattress and a scratchy white bedsheet. My backpack was neatly placed at the very edge of the bed along with my mud stained boots. The closet at the right side of the room, next to the bathroom was filled with brightly colored shirts and sweaters along with jeans that seemed to be faded from lack of wear, almost as if the convent knew that I would be staying for far more than either of us wanted. I winced in pain as the memories of my various injuries come into view.

"Oh dear! Be still! You're still healing love! Fata nebuna!" Sister Gertrude exclaimed and attempted to get up to put me back in a position on the bed that would warrant the least amount of pain. I ignored her and hesitantly grabbed my shirt and mud stained boots.

"Let me help you silly," she said.

She helped me with my crutches as if she knew exactly why I woke up in a hurry to head off to the dining area. She held onto my waist to keep my body supported as we walked together past the infirmary where an old woman was coughing. A nurse in a red and white uniform came to her aid and gave her a white cup of water with a bendy straw to sip on, sipping in gratitude. I turned my head back to see where Sister Gertrude was taking me and caught the most beautiful sight that I'd seen in a long while, the garden.

We passed the garden part of the grounds and I couldn't help but gasp at the beauty of the flowers divided into sections on the cobblestone. There were different varieties of flowers as far as the eye could see, but I didn't know where to look first. Lilacs, saponaria bellifolia, roses, peonies, tulips, and daffodils, my favorite flowers, were just some of the ones I could name off hand, but my eyes landed on a purple flower nearest to where the infirmary building was. As we stopped walking, I took the time to concentrate on the name of the flower but my mind was too foggy to come up with the appropriate name. It looked all too familiar, but before I could think any harder, the old badger piped up, "Crocus."

I exclaimed, "Crocus! That's the one!" Pointing a little too aggressively than I should have considering my extensive injuries, but it was too late anyhow, and doubled over as Gerty came to my rescue.

As we gingerly made our way into the sprawling dining hall, my stomach lurched and turned in response. The windows were of stained rich glass that welcomed in the warm sunlight and the vibrant hues of midday looking almost like a dream. In the sunlight, I could see the tall, big oak wooden chairs from where we stood. As we got closer, I saw the more intricate designs reflecting from the light. All of the chairs, as I had come to notice, had delicate designs etched in the tree bark in swoops, swirls, and the romanian flower on the interior of it. The cushion was yellow with streams of blue and red creeping in making it all a masterful art piece, as most things in the convent had seemed to be.

Jesus loved beautiful things it seemed.

The aroma of the rabbit stew overtook me and I began to salivate while sitting at the virtually empty table. It was just me and ol' Gerty. A dark haired, slender woman wearing the same robes as Getrude came out from the kitchen and placed a bubbling stew in front of my face with a spoon next to it.

"T-thank you! "

I choked out excitedly as I went to devour the stew, but thought better of it as Gerty smacked my hand for not doing as she was used to. I quickly said my grace ashamedly, took the spoon in hand and scooped the soup into my mouth. The meaty, earthy flavor overwhelmed my taste buds and I caught the faint smell of dewy rain in the forest in spring, the crackling of the fireplace my father used to toke, the blueberry pie my mother would let cool on the dining room table tempting the rest of us to devour it whole by just looking at it.

With a tear creeping down my face, I exhaled years of memories, "Wow, this is good soup."