• Killer. Murder. Butcher. Assassin. Call me what may but it still remains that I am your executioner. And as you lay there silently sleeping I hold your life in the balance. Your hand is folded neatly under head, a few strands of hair falling across your elegant, docile, little face. This and everything I take into my minds eye and see. No not the way you would see, for I, I really see. I see every detail, the way the moon casts a soft glow on your porcelain skin, the steady rise and fall of your chest. We are bred for this, bred for the moment when my blade will meet your throat and in a quick flicker of a motion your life will be gone. You will cease to exist and I will keep on living. Life is just that easily erased.

    If I were to wake you now would you tell me how you felt? Would you tell me everything, show me your raw emotions in attempts to draw some sort of sympathy out of me to save your life? We are breed for this. We do not feel. But damn it I want to! I want to feel something I want to feel your fear. The quickening of your breath, the increase of your heart beat as adrenaline courses through your veins. Long have I forgotten what that feels like. I have forgotten all of it. Fear. Love. Courage. Hate. All of it gone. And for what? So I can be a good obedient little pet, and end your fragile life without a second thought.

    All of us are hand picked, nurtured until all emotion is simply squashed out. Then, they are left with a empty shell of a human, something they can use. Intelligence, keen observation and tact, traits that one is lucky to have. Traits that signed me up for this.

    I was taken from my family at an early age so I don't remember the warmth of my mothers arms or the soft tones of her voice as she calmed me from yet another nightmare. So I don't remember the cozy white sheets I built forts with. I don't remember those warm summer nights looking up at the gently twinkling stars. I don't remember our fathers deep comforting voice saying good night.

    A sword was thrust into my hand and I was giving my first task. A boy stood across the way sword in hand. He was shaking. I had to kill him. He was the same age as me but he was told the same. If I didn't it would be my blood on the floor and he would be the victor standing over my motionless body. Was it fear then that drove me then? Was it fear of death that compelled me to drive my sword through his chest without much of a thought?

    They break you down, even the most sturdy are weathered away eventually. Supposed friends would sooner back stab me to save their own lives then try to save mine. But I can't really blame them. I did the same thing. I'd do it again too and every single time without regret. They'd do just the same to me anyway. Better I stand living and them lay dead then the reverse.

    You sleep so soundly. I wonder what your dreaming. Do you dream of pleasant things? Of the moons silver glow and of laughter? I know the moon well. She is a silent guardian, but the noise of a child's laugh is foreign to me now but what I would give for it to invade my ears once more. To observe merriment and joy, to watch as a mother coddles her baby. But that is not my reality, only yours.

    I know the sanguine tint of blood stained sheet. The harsh scream of my victim. The crash of their body as it hit the callous floor. The anguished look on their distorted face as they reach out for help from their numbed executioner.

    I want to feel. I want to feel fear, hate, remorse something. Teach me. Teach me how to feel. It is time to wake.

    The guards came to your call, as expected but I will not fight as their sword comes down on me. Death will only bring me peace. How ironic that you are my savior. Thank you.