The Ghost of Red

He wiped away the blood from his cheek and a slow clap came from the shadows.

“Good job,” the voice chuckled, “you did well.” Out of the darkness, a figure stepped out, dressed in all black which resembled the night sky outside. “As expected of our top assassin.”

Giorgio turned to the figure with contempt. “What do you want?”

“Oh my,” the laugh came out muffled through the mask, “I’m just making sure you’re okay.”

With a swift motion, Giorgio had pulled out a knife and dashed at the figure, stopping just before the blade tore the flesh. His amber eyes burned with disgust. “Don’t test me. I don’t care if you’re a messenger, I can still kill you.”

“Not if I kill you first.”

There was a blast and a sharp, jabbing pain pierced his side, breath getting knocked out of him. He saw the figure opened their mask; lips as red as the blood on his hands.

He took in a sharp intake of air, jolting up from his bed. Adrenaline pumping in his veins, heart hammering against his ribcage, pupils dilated, and lungs struggling to gather enough air.

“Giorgio?”

He turned to the door, the only source of light being the hallway. “Illie.”

The woman walked slowly to him. “Another nightmare?”

“No,” he lied as if it was second nature to him, “I was just surprised that you’re not in bed.”

“I was getting some water.”

“Right,” he muttered quietly to himself.

She reached out to touch his arm which was still tense. “I’m here now.”

“I know.” He placed his hand over his lover’s hand. “I know.”

Deep in his mind, he wondered if he actually knew that or if he was hoping that repeating it enough would make it turn to the truth. How long would he need to do that? He had always thought that he was good at lying, but it was a completely different matter to fool himself into one thing and making another person believed what he wanted them to believe.

He walked with his coat flapping behind him. The wind swept the dry leaves, sending them in spiraling waves around his legs. He needed to go back, but his feet continued to take him away, straying him from the paths he was supposed to take. It was as if they had a mind of their own. Giorgio followed like a mindless slave, making his way through side roads, then into alleys which could only fit one person.

He was seeking something which he did not understand. All he knew was that something was missing in his life, a missing puzzle piece to the picture. Perhaps the amber-eyed man could live on without ever finishing the picture, or changing it in its entirety, but Giorgio didn’t want that.

“A life is meant to be lived.”

That was what he had said. That was his last words to them. To her.

It was the truth then. He didn’t want anything to do with them anymore, he didn’t want to engage someone in a theater or in a shop only to slit their throat later on. He had wanted to wash his hands free of blood, although he knew that the stains would never fully be gone. At the very least, he wanted to try living a life like everyone else.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, he found himself looking over his back, watching his shadows. The slightest sound would wake him at night and if something was slightly amiss – a key that wasn’t on the counter, a book that fell from the table – he would instantly think that they were on his tracks. Even if they had said that they wouldn’t chase him down, that they would let him go free, he still couldn’t feel safe. There were invisible chains around his neck and limbs, rendering him captive.

When he returned that night, to a warm home, to a homemade dinner and a loving wife, he felt complicated. This had been all that he ever wanted. He changed entirely for the sole purpose of living his dream, which would seem mediocre to anyone else.

“Did work ended late again?” She asked, spooning mashed potato onto his plate.

His office work had ended on time, but he had spent the remainder of sunlight roaming around the backstreets of the town, breathing in the damp stench and hiding in the corners of the slums, like a shadow. Like history trying to find an opportunity to repeat itself.

This life...

“Giorgio?”

This simple, cozy life was all that he had wanted, all that he had craved.

He took his plate from her and kissed her cheek, the action making his wife giggle. “Yes, work ended late.”

Then why couldn’t he stop lying?

Years passed yet his life remained the same. Looking over his shoulders, checking the shadows, discreet glances to make sure that no one was out for him. There were stories about ghosts and creatures lurking under the cover of the night circulating around town recently, but Giorgio was well-acquainted with those before others.

His past haunted him in his every step. His past actions, his blade, the blood on his hands were too vile, too much, far too much sin for one man to carry in his lifetime. He had hoped that with time his hands would be cleansed, but perhaps it was nothing more than wishful thinking. A desperate attempt at hope. He should’ve known better than to ask forgiveness, for those he sought forgiveness from were gone with a quick movement of his wrists, leaving crimson stains.

“Giorgio.”

There was that voice again. He looked up from his journal at his wife.

“You’ve been awfully quiet, and you seem troubled. Do you want me to call for a doctor?”

“No.”

She stepped away from the stove and wiped her hands on the apron around her waist. “Will you tell me what’s wrong then?” She came up to him on the dining table and held his hand. “I’m worried about you, dear.”

He stared at her. Brown hair neatly braided and big, brown eyes with worry etched on it. Was this not what he wanted? A wife who cared for him, who loved him? A wife who did not know her husband’s past. A wife who worried about him. A wife who wished to be listened to, masking it for worry. A woman who pestered him, urging him time and time again to go to the doctor, because he’s sick. A woman who wanted him to only look at her. A woman who asked him to be fine because she was there.

“Giorgio.”

When did that voice change?

“Gi—”

She never finished her sentence.

The chair fell over and they both fell to the floor. Hands around her throat. Open mouth trying to get something out to no avail. Hands trying to push him away, body writhing in a futile attempt to escape. His fingers dug into the flesh, pressing and pressing and pressing. His amber eyes burned like fire into her brown ones. There was no mercy, only flames. Only death.

“As expected,” the feminine voice rang out like a clear bell.

The shadow was here, dropping a veil over the life he had wanted, over the body of a woman whom he had once promised to love. He could hear footsteps, but he didn’t move an inch. The figure knelt in front of him, over the corpse, then thin fingers glided over it to close the eyelids.

“What do you want?” He asked, an underlying question hidden in a question.

The figure pulled back her hood, revealing long hair as dark as her attire tied in a low ponytail. “To make sure you’re okay.” An answer hidden in an answer.

She offered her hand, and he took it.

As they leave the building, dressed in black to hide themselves, he asked again. “Did you know?”

She was still wearing a mask, so he couldn’t see her expression yet it was obvious that she was smiling.

“... That’s why you didn’t stop me.”

She tilted her head back and laughter escaped her lips. “Oh, Giorgio.” She reached behind her head and pulled her mask off. Lips as red as blood shone under the moonlight. “Red always suited you better.”

His eyes glazed with forest fire as he pulled her in.

The picture was complete.