lars wiley | one | fin

L     A     R     S

Always told you not to love me
Now look what you made me do
I got poison in my pocket,
told you I was bad news

PART ONE
N    E    S    T

Meadowfield— it has such a pretty name, doesn't it? Maybe, once upon a time, it was. Now it is just overgrown. They shut the gates over a decade ago, and now moss consumes entire treetops, vines and dry roots make up most of the forest floor, and no one except the doves know their way around it.

That's what they call themselves: the doves. Like they are bringing peace to this long-ago forsaken place.

I was fifteen when my parents decided it was time for me to take what they called "the next step" in my career training. Here I was, stupid and naive enough to think it was just going to be some kind of intense obstacle course, or something. But, no. They took my hand and led me to Meadowfield. A key I hadn't ever seen made an appearance, and a wrought iron fence opened with ease. After that, I followed them quietly through trails of wildflowers and ivy, past trees wider than my arm span, until a building emerged from the wilderness.

"Welcome to the nest," they said.

———————————————————

PART TWO
D  E  A  T  H

They didn't give me my own gun until the day of my first assignment. I wore white, just as instructed. I still remember staring at myself in the mirror, trembling hands and a fearful look in my eyes which I could not disguise.

An envelope, white, unopened, sealed with a dove, was handed to me by my own mother. Inside, there was a picture of a man and an address, nothing more.

He lived on May street in the calendar ward, lawn untrimmed. It was night time, hardly any lights on inside, but it was clear this man was not married. Mom said a good chunk of our assignments came from a spouse seeking revenge, but this was a bachelor pad. Hardly any decorations on the wall, no scented candles burning, dirty laundry tossed onto the arms of their furniture, so someone else wanted this man dead.

There was no sense in thinking about it, because anyone could have placed this hit. This could have been gang violence, a lifelong feud coming to an end, or even an angry neighbor who may have been watching as I walked through the front door.

He was sitting on his living room couch working a newspaper crossword, reading glasses parked on the end of his nose as he tapped an ink pen against his mouth.

"Five letter word for biological close..." he pondered out loud.

My gun only inches away from the back of his head, I counted to three, and I pulled the trigger.

There was hardly any sound; silencers are an assassin's greatest investment. He fell over to the side, no suffering, no wimpering, no pleading for a life he had already lost. Shaky breath, I turned on my heels to leave.

Five letter word for biological close—

"Death."

I was almost out the front door before I heard a voice from upstairs.

PART THREE
S H A D O W

I followed him for years after that, kept tabs on which homes he was staying in. I would drop money in places where I knew he would be the first to find it, sneak clothes into his bag when he left it unattended. Once, I even staged a threat on his life when I found out the group home he was staying in was for juvenile delinquents, just so they would move him some place better. But none of this changed the cold, hard truth:

I made someone an orphan.

I still remember that night, hearing that noise from upstairs. Sometimes, I wish I hadn't. I wish that I had just walked out and never looked back. A man's first kill is haunting enough— mine was made that much harder when a boy who was not even of reaping age when he had to walk downstairs and see his father's lifeless body.

"You should've just killed him," Charlie said, staring at his reflection as he fixed his hair. I opened my mouth, probably to say something sarcastic, before he clicked his tongue: "I know, I know. You don't do kids. Still, one of them is gonna get your ass some day, I bet."

Meryn Quaid. That was the boy's name, before it got changed to something else as a safety precaution. Every night, still to this day, when I close my eyes, those two words are the last ones I think before I fall asleep.

PART FOUR
G   H   O   S   T

Funny, how the dead have a way of haunting us. I was going to leave until they brought him in, all clenched fists and angry expressions. Got even better. They assigned me to train him.

"That one is mine."

"Since when do you take on the charity cases?"

"This one has potential, that's all."

"Everyone's got potential. But if you insist—"

"I do insist, so fuck off, Jinx."

I slam the door in her face. Midnight exactly. The little shit is late.

My demeanor made you wait,
but the consequences stayed
I killed everything we were
Baby, murder was a case

song: 27 hours