The Inner-Monologue of a Retired Assassin

Trigger warning: suicide

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. 

The same tables and chairs. The same ink paintings. The same wooden statue of Buddha sitting next to the same old TV. 

I almost feel like I can smell the same perfume in the air, and see the same her in the same dress sitting on the same small couch, smoking the same cigarette and smiling at the same me. 

And I’d be standing right there in the same spot, in the same black suit, giving her the same smile back, and pointing… 

And pointing the same gun at her head. 

The same head that I blew into pieces twenty-four years ago. 

Heh… 

It’s almost nostalgic now. 

My final, greatest mission. 

To serve as a bodyguard for a beautiful lady and protect her for ten years. 

I had planned to retire after these ten years. 

But that night, after she said those three words to me, I realized something. 

I realized that an assassin can never truly retire. 

We can say and believe what we may, but deep down, there will always be some “assassin” left in us. 

A little bit of deadliness that just won’t die. 

And so that night, the last night of our ten-year-contract, after hearing the three words she said to me, I shot and killed her. 

Her, the lady whom I was contracted to guard, whom I had promised to protect, and whom I had loved. 

But the real challenge came after the shot. 

As an assassin, I’ve never been bothered by the philosophical questions of life and death, nor by the complex moral examination of my work. To me, those were mere hindrances, something that pushes my finger back from pulling the trigger. 

I have killed countless people throughout my career, but I’ve never had the time nor the interest to stop and ponder about what it truly means to take the life of a fellow human being. 

But somehow this time was different. 

As I watched her brain splatter on the window, a strange feeling came upon me. 

For the first time since I became an assassin, my hands started to shake. 

I dropped to my knees. I screamed. Tears came out. 

My final, greatest mission. 

To pretend to be a bodyguard for a beautiful lady for ten years, and to kill her at the end of those ten years. 

I had planned to retire after this kill. 

But that night, after I pulled the trigger, I realized something. 

I realized that an assassin can never truly retire. 

We can say and believe what we may, but deep down, there will always be some “assassin” left in us. 

A little bit of deadliness that just won’t die. 

That night, I made a promise to her. 

That night, she said “I love you.” 

That night, I, the assassin, had died. 

I looked up. 

I saw the bloodstains on the window. I didn’t like that, so I shot it. 

I saw the old TV playing some cheesy soap opera. I didn’t like that, so I shot it. 

I saw the wooden Buddha smiling at me. I didn’t like that, so I shot it. 

I saw the ink paintings depicting beautiful sights. I didn’t like that, so I shot them. 

I saw the tables and chairs arranged in such a casual way, as if it’s any other day, not realizing the great tragedy that had just occurred. I especially didn’t like that, so I shot them too. 

I saw her body lying on the floor. Calm, lifeless, and no longer beautiful. 

So I shot it. 

And I shot it. 

And I shot it. 

It had been twenty-four years since she’d last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. 

The same tables and chairs. The same ink paintings. The same wooden statue of Buddha sitting next to the same old TV. 

The same bloodstains on the wall. The same broken windows. The same smell of decay in the air. 

She may have been dead for twenty-four years, and our written contract may have been long overdue, but I wasn’t about to break a promise I made to a beautiful lady. 

I will protect you to the end. 

So I point the gun at my own head. 

The same head that gave me the genius idea of killing her twenty-four years ago. 

I smile. The same smile I gave her before I put a bullet through her skull. 

It had been twenty-four years, and I’m getting old. Keeping this promise is becoming harder and harder. So I thought of a plan. 

I’ll end this promise once and for all, on a happy note. 

In twenty seconds, the bombs I planted will detonate, blowing the house to pieces. And that’ll be final. 

There won’t ever be any uninvited intruders ever again. 

But before that, I have a job to do. 

My final, greatest mission. 

To protect this beautiful lady to the end, even after her death. To kill any and all offenders in her way, including myself, who, after serving as a bodyguard for ten years, had killed her. 

Smiling still, I let my gun sing its final tune, and a bullet dances into my skull. 

And I died the same way as her, in the same place, by the same hands, and with the same gun. 

When I was young I’ve always fantasized about my death. I had dreamed of dying in a more honorable way. Perhaps getting caught and executed after killing some big-name politician. 

But to be honest? Dreams? Honor? Life? Death? Didn’t I throw away all right to decide any of that when I chose this line of work? 

As an assassin, I was once troubled by the philosophical questions of life and death and by the complex moral examination of my work. After that night, it became a hindrance for me, something that kept pushing my finger back from pulling the trigger. 

I have killed countless people throughout my career, but that kill alone has made me ponder about what it truly means to take the life of a fellow human being. 

However, in the face of death, I am no longer bothered by these questions. 

After I pulled the trigger one last time, I realized something. 

I realized that a human can never truly retire. 

We can say and believe what we may, but deep down, there will always be some “human” left in us. 

A little bit of heart that just won’t die. 

What did my life mean? What had I accomplished? What would death entail? 

I didn’t give a damn about any of it. 

I had kept my promise and loved her to the end. 

And that was all that mattered.