They were kind. Generous even. But the assassin within me was itching for blood. Anger filled every ounce of my body. How could I be sold like some worthless object? I was worth more than everything this family had owned. I was an assassin after all. My job was to kill anyone or anything that came my way. And so I did. I bolted into each room and slashed each human I came across. I had become numb to the feeling of sympathy, numb to the feeling of love or the feeling of care. I was jealous of what this family had that I could never possibly have. Your just an assassin. I reassured myself. Assassins cannot feel or be cared for by anyone. My knife dripped blood as I walked across the living room and dropped it onto the floor in exhaustion. It was silent and cold. That must be all of them I thought. I was wrong.
Suddenly I heard a creaking sound behind me. Just as I was about to swing to defend myself I felt a sharp jab of pain from a knife shudder through my chest. The young boy that stood in front of me released the knife and thrusted his arms back and forward, piercing through my chest again. My hands reached for my chest as I stared at my blood pouring out onto the floor. I glanced one last time at the young boy who’s eyes were full of rage and hurt. I collapsed onto the floor and everything went black.
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