THAT MAN OF DIFFERENT FACES

PARANOID

In a blink of an eye, everything had changed.

If only I hadn't closed my eyes…

I didn't know how many days, weeks, or months have passed.

And I sure didn't give a damn.

I was too busy, always looking over my shoulders, expecting an enemy

to suddenly appear and lunge and try to kill me now that I was smaller…weaker…

that I momentarily forgot how to count.

How many days has it been since then?

Or was it months already?

These questions never really crossed my mind until I realized that,

even though I am one of the most powerful professional hitmen in the whole world,

while I'm wearing the face of a five-year old, nobody will try to kill me,

much less make me cry.

At that moment of realization, I could almost hear that woman's voice.

What had she said to me back then?

I couldn't remember.

And it might be best not to.

Life goes on.

But not for me.

I once had everything: fame, wealth, power; and in a blink of an eye, I lost it all—

probably not everything, but when you're stuck in a stupid body

of a stupid five-year old for a stupid God-knows-how-long,

you wouldn't help but feel so stupidly sorry for yourself.

So I grew mad.

Mad at the world for choosing me.

Mad at myself for accepting a decided fate that I only half-understood.

And suddenly, I wanted it all to change.

This might be my chance at a second life.

A chance to correct some mistakes, repent some sins, atone for more.

But I realized that I still want the fame, the wealth, the power, and that all I wanted to happen was for the bad memories to vanish.

I didn't even know how I had come to call those memories 'bad',

since I had always believed that every memory was supposed to be considered precious

and essential to the growth of one person,

but the more that I thought about it,

the more those memories seemed trash.

So I approached that doctor, that good friend of mine.

I told him I want parts of my memories erased, everything else retained

(lest I get into a battle and forget how to fight)

and asked if it was possible.

'Oh, it's possible all right,' he replied and added,

'…everything is…mostly the things you least expect to be'

and with a meaningful glance, gave me something.

It was a cup of liquid I did not yet know the name of.

I asked him what it is.

'I should be the one asking,' he said,

'…and I'm asking you, Are you sure you want to do this?'

The answer was already in my hands.

So I drank,

finished the whole cup in three long gulps my five-year old body could manage.

And paranoia settled in.

The world began spinning too fast for my taste,

everything swirled,

and for a moment I wanted to kill the bastard for poisoning me.

But when I saw his face, he wore a look of genuine fear and concern

and for the last time, I heard that woman's voice,

almost nagging.

"You worry too much, Mr. Paranoid Hitman."