Fluffy Cookies
Angelic Demon
The first thing that comes to my mind when I hear the word ‘death’ is eternal. Forever is a long time to spend in darkness. My father passed away when I was ten years old. I didn’t get to see him before he took his last breath. I didn’t get to officially say ‘goodbye’. That’s when I started getting into a lot of trouble. No one found out, though. I was never caught by the authorities or my mother. My little sister never knew a damn thing either.
Trouble. I could use that word, but when I hear that word, I think of silly mischief. What I did wasn’t silly. It was serious and it took skill. I was fifteen when I had my first ever kill. It was a bloody mess. The hot, crimson liquid stained my favorite white shirt.
I had been walking home one night after a shift at the little convenience store downtown. It was the summer, so it wasn’t completely dark yet. You could say it was between dusk and twilight. I remember the air was warm and I was wearing my jean skirt --which only reached the middle of my thighs-- and a cream-white shirt under a black sweater. I had on my feet a pair of white platform Keds.
I had my earbuds in, listening to one of my favorite rock/pop bands that was downloaded on my iPod: Fall Out Boy. I should have been paying attention to my surroundings, especially when passing alleyways. Mamá always told me to be aware, but when I was fifteen, when was I actually going to listen?
It wasn’t until I was yanked into the alleyway on 7th Street, that I finally realized what the real world is all about. I was pinned, front to the wall. I remember his voice was husky and it sent chills down my spine.
“Scream and I’ll end ya,” He told me. I didn’t scream, but I did struggle. He lifted my skirt and groped me through my underwear. It hurt with how rough he was. I whimpered and tried to shove him off of me.
“Let me go, please…” I cried quietly. He didn’t stop. That’s when I dug into my bra and took out my switchblade. My dad always said to keep it on me in case of emergencies. This. This was an emergency. I pushed the little button to let the blade out. My hand drew back before it moved swiftly. The knife stuck into the man’s gut. He let me go instantly.
It was a blur of what happened next, but I do remember picking up a stray two-by-four that lay near a dumpster. It was a mix of stabbing and bludgeoning. Blood was everywhere. All over my clothes, all over the walls and the ground. The man was unrecognizable. Why didn’t I stop at the singular stab and run? I would’ve been faster than him seeing how I was a brilliant cross-country runner.
That was my first kill. I still don’t know how I was never caught from that. But I was approached by a man soon after. He was intimidating, yes, but he wasn’t threatening. He hired me as his assassin-in-training. By the time I was eighteen, I had a full job in killing people for him. I was scary and I took it seriously.
I was about twenty-one when I got my brain tumor. My killings got sloppy, and I left evidence behind that led the authorities to my boss. He was getting angry. My mother passed on the day my boss finally had enough.
I was so upset about my mother that I ran to the playground near our house and sat on the swings like I always did. My sister came and sat on the one next to mine. We argued about something and I finally snapped and told her to leave. She did, in tears. Once she was gone, there was a gunshot and the last thing I remembered was falling and everything going completely black. No sound, no light.
This is it, I thought, I died young. No more birthdays, no more deaths, no more mom…
Trouble. I could use that word, but when I hear that word, I think of silly mischief. What I did wasn’t silly. It was serious and it took skill. I was fifteen when I had my first ever kill. It was a bloody mess. The hot, crimson liquid stained my favorite white shirt.
I had been walking home one night after a shift at the little convenience store downtown. It was the summer, so it wasn’t completely dark yet. You could say it was between dusk and twilight. I remember the air was warm and I was wearing my jean skirt --which only reached the middle of my thighs-- and a cream-white shirt under a black sweater. I had on my feet a pair of white platform Keds.
I had my earbuds in, listening to one of my favorite rock/pop bands that was downloaded on my iPod: Fall Out Boy. I should have been paying attention to my surroundings, especially when passing alleyways. Mamá always told me to be aware, but when I was fifteen, when was I actually going to listen?
It wasn’t until I was yanked into the alleyway on 7th Street, that I finally realized what the real world is all about. I was pinned, front to the wall. I remember his voice was husky and it sent chills down my spine.
“Scream and I’ll end ya,” He told me. I didn’t scream, but I did struggle. He lifted my skirt and groped me through my underwear. It hurt with how rough he was. I whimpered and tried to shove him off of me.
“Let me go, please…” I cried quietly. He didn’t stop. That’s when I dug into my bra and took out my switchblade. My dad always said to keep it on me in case of emergencies. This. This was an emergency. I pushed the little button to let the blade out. My hand drew back before it moved swiftly. The knife stuck into the man’s gut. He let me go instantly.
It was a blur of what happened next, but I do remember picking up a stray two-by-four that lay near a dumpster. It was a mix of stabbing and bludgeoning. Blood was everywhere. All over my clothes, all over the walls and the ground. The man was unrecognizable. Why didn’t I stop at the singular stab and run? I would’ve been faster than him seeing how I was a brilliant cross-country runner.
That was my first kill. I still don’t know how I was never caught from that. But I was approached by a man soon after. He was intimidating, yes, but he wasn’t threatening. He hired me as his assassin-in-training. By the time I was eighteen, I had a full job in killing people for him. I was scary and I took it seriously.
I was about twenty-one when I got my brain tumor. My killings got sloppy, and I left evidence behind that led the authorities to my boss. He was getting angry. My mother passed on the day my boss finally had enough.
I was so upset about my mother that I ran to the playground near our house and sat on the swings like I always did. My sister came and sat on the one next to mine. We argued about something and I finally snapped and told her to leave. She did, in tears. Once she was gone, there was a gunshot and the last thing I remembered was falling and everything going completely black. No sound, no light.
This is it, I thought, I died young. No more birthdays, no more deaths, no more mom…
