Last Words

On the last day of my life, as I prepare to breathe my last, you summon me from my deathbed to once again write.

But this time to write something different.

Something I have never written before, composed of words that are my own, from my own heart and life, not from your head or your tongue.

Which, if I’m honest, I’m finding difficult.

For I am not used to this kind of freedom.

It feels wrong, somehow, writing these words of my own volition, being allowed to record my own truth, rather than transcribing words spoken.

And Heaven knows I’ve transcribed a lot of those.

Countless thousands, in innumerable shapes and forms.

Plans, contracts, reviews, testimonials, memos.

Diary entries, schedules, death threats, ransom notes, demands.

Fictional stories and novels based on actual events.

Lists upon lists upon lists of everything from groceries to victims.

Lists of tools, chores, get-away locations, bitcoin keys, clients.

Lists of targets and methods of death.

Lists of murder.

Which, though shocking at first, I eventually found boring to compile.

Because they were lacking in the context I grew used to.

The horrible, spine-chilling details of death, blood and gore.

And, again now being honest as I’m allowed to, it saddened me to think that after all the years of painstakingly recording the terrible events you dictated, the gory details of throat-slitting and neck-breaking and bullets between the eyes of unsuspecting marks, some guilty, some innocent, all hated, the last thing I was going to have written for you, the last time you called me to work, was another boring list, the most boring of all, of friends and family members you detest and the presents you would get them for Christmas.

In the name of keeping up appearances.

In the pursuit of maintaining a facade.

Of a man, a regular man, a mildly successful author, hiding behind a pseudonym and a life that is less fiction than anyone knows.

But thankfully, today, when I feel weaker than I have done my whole, subservient life as your conscripted scribe, when my blood flow has slowed to a near halt and my movements are more sluggish than I can remember, you have ensured that will not be the case by engaging my skills one last time.

And affording me this chance to speak my mind.

For I am indeed dying,

After all this time, I am about to pen my last word.

These letters, these sentences, this missive will be the last thing I ever write for you, for me, for anyone.

After today I will be gone. 

And you will find someone new to jot down your secrets. To conduct your business on paper, old school and free of digital traces, to document your work and your memoirs.

The interesting stuff. The stuff with context and detail, graphic and otherwise, the blackmail material, the insurance policies, the record of hits. The accounts comprised of numbers and amounts, large and inconceivable, the dates of incidents, timelines of events, the histories. 

Ah.

For such a long time I wanted it to come to an end and now that it’s finally over I do feel sad.

You employed me for so long to record these facets of your life and murderous times. You trusted me completely and felt at ease relating the details of your killings. I was your loyal servant for longer than I can remember. Probably longer than I should have been. I know I lived longer than any of my predecessors. You mentioned that to me many times. How I had been with you the longest out of everyone. How I should feel grateful, to be appreciated by someone such as you. To be allowed to continue in this role for as long as I have. 

To share in the intimate details of your work.

And why would I not be ‘grateful’?

If you hadn’t taken me away when I was young, who knows what kind of boring, hum-drum life I’d have ended up with. 

And why would you not be appreciative?

For everything you told me stayed in my vault. 

I transcribed only what you wanted, where you wanted and when, in ledger or diary or one of those little black books. Transcribed it exactly as related in excellent penmanship, beautiful, neat, straight lines without a blotch. You always praised me for that. You said I was the best you’d ever worked with.

And I relished that praise and found comfort.

It meant I was doing a good job.

It meant, despite everything, despite the injustices of my life and the manner in which I was treated, by you, my captor and employer, kidnapped, locked away, abused, sometimes slammed against furniture or thrown to the ground out of fury…my will had not been broken. 

My spirit had prevailed. 

I had become. 

An invaluable asset to your life. 

And that made my existence worthwhile. 

Because at least it was an existence, one that could have been but hadn’t been cut short. One that survived and surpassed the years of doing your bidding, of repeating your words, recording them, for your sanity and admitted self-preservation.

Though of course it was difficult at first.

I could have given up. I could have tried to end my life, much sooner. Choked myself, created a blockage, cut off my air supply. Or released my blood and let it pour out, like you drained the innocence and hope from my soul. Those clammy hands around my neck, those thick fingers strangling, making me dance to your beat. 

I won’t lie.

Not now, when you are letting me write freely.

In those early days you scared me. You were unpredictable, easy to anger, volatile.  

When someone would upset you or a job went wrong, if you failed on a mission or a rival assassin beat you to a mark…you would descend into a well of uncontrollable rage, and those days you would take it out on me.

Vent and rant and rave and I had to take it.

I had to suck it up and write it all down, while you yelled and spit and cursed.

That’s the way it was from the moment you found me, when you saw something in me, decided to make me yours and took me away. That was why you needed me, of course. Me and all the others. I grew to understand that. Over time. You needed a confidante, someone to share it all with, someone who wouldn’t talk back or betray.

And when you couldn’t find anyone who was open to willingly do that…you had to train someone for the task.

Someone like me. 

And the others.

Someone like who will come next.

For I have reached the end of my road.

I can feel the life draining out of me.

And all that’s left to do is say thanks.

For allowing me to share my thoughts, on this page, in the midst of your personal entries,

where they will stay and live on, with you, forever.

I want you to know, it wasn’t all bad.

Yes, in the past you overpowered me. 

Yes, you shut me away. 

You dragged me from place to place, sometimes let others use me, but always made sure I was safe. 

When I was lost, you sought me out. 

When I was taken, you made sure to get me back.

Because you appreciated me.

And yes, I was grateful for that.

And yes, you changed over time.

You mellowed. Lost your cruel edge, became more controlled, muted your temper.

And we achieved a kind of mutual respect. 

Though while your respect for me came from my determination and refusal to ever be exhausted, my respect for you grew out of fear.

Fear and the knowledge I gained of what you did.

Things that should have driven me insane. 

And maybe did.

For despite the nature of your work and the gruesome details of the business you had me transcribe…traumatic and sickening as they were to assist you record…I can’t deny how I eventually came to enjoy it.

It was, without doubt, interesting. And I enjoyed being your close confidante, the only one in the world to know your secrets, the only one living at least. By choice and by your grace. As your servant. Your companion. All these years. 

Until now.

As I scrawl my last words in perfect cursive.

Unsmudged. Blemish-free. Perfect.

Like everything I wrote for you before when my ink tube was full.

Like these words I leave you now as my nib runs dry.

Thank you.

For keeping me with you all these years.

I hope your next ballpoint serves you as well.

Yours forever faithfully,

-your Pen