Here she is! Chapter 2!!!
The knife, still flecked with blood droplets, falls from my hand and onto the cold, stony floor. It bounces, one, twice with a clang, then shivers at the foot of his brown leather dress shoes.
I can hear the smile in his voice as he speaks to me from his chair in the middle of darkness. “Excellent, as always, Thaila.”
“Thank you, Master.” I say, bowing my head to him slightly, my hair cloaking my face.
In truth, I am bowing in reverance to the tassles on his shoes. Though I have been with him since I was a mere child, aged three years, I have never looked upon his true face once. He has always stayed in his chair, shadowed in the gloaming of his lair, only illuminated by the blinking lights of his large computer screen.
He pivots his chair away from me, slowly swiping his long second finger across the trackpad. The screen gleams brightly back at him, showing the face of Logan Kromer along with a directional map, leading to his location.
With a slight twitch of henious laughter, Master pushes a button beside the trackpad. A flash of red emits from the screen, crossing out Logan’s face with the words, “TERMINATED”.
“Add the knife to the collection now.” He says in a slow, droning voice.
I kneel to the floor, slowly stooping to raise the knife into my hand. I give Master one last respectful nod, then leave the room, struggling not to make too much tumult on the floor as I do.
There are two wooden doors immediatly ahead of me, one with a long streak of dried blood running down the door. It found its way there from the multiple times I opened it after kills, tossed the weapon nonchalantly into the pile, and quickly closed it. In this juncture, however, my fingertips are clean. I open the door with a heavy push and admire the glint that parades when the light hits the silver knives inside.
Master believes in keeping all used weapons to ourselves and hidden so that my fingerprints will never be traced to a murder. Yet, I doubt the government even remembers my name, let alone has my fingerprints on a file.
I toss the kitchen knife into thin air, watching it fly for a second or two. It crashes swiftly into two other knives, sending them flying with a graceful flip. Indeed, I have always admired the smooth curve and graceful ways of a knife. Forcing myself then to close the door, I enter the second room, the one I call my own.
There’s nothing much inside, just a simple bed and dresser for keeping my few different outfits inside. Various chipped plates, the worn, outdaded China from the 70’s, are stacked in the corner, for the special nights when Master and I eat together. The rest of the food I eat is merely gathered or stolen when time permits.
A giant hole in the roof, showing the dark, starless night sky, beckons to me, seemingly reaching out a hand and guiding me toward its opening. I open one drawer, sieze my collection of pencils and paper, and climb onto the roof. I can only see touches of the town from here, but it’s enough to inspire the smooth poetry I write.
It’s enough to keep me humane.
See, I believe the soul can be quieted through a melodious fragment of literature. My fingers work their way quietly around the torn edges of poems I’ve kept over the years, simple poems, yet enough to keep the enraged from going insane, the sick from fading forever.
With this fresh in my mind, I begin to write a poem about the first thing on my mind, pencil tapping against the roof every few strokes as I write.
What is for certain?
Not much, I could say,
for my wanderlust heart
leads my mind far astray.
There are times that I wish
for nothing but just
to live normally, for one day,
to feel true love and lust.
And then, I recall
the things I’ve been told,
that feelings are nothing more
than rich tales of old.
They blind all the smartest,
they ruin the young.
I agree, yes I do,
let these words leave my tongue.
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