"Specter" by Noah A.

You ever wondered what it feels like to see the face of death, giving you that grimly grin, with open arms, just waiting to welcome you in its embrace? Those soulless, black voids of obsidian, boring into the thoughts of your heads, distorting your judgments until you’re driven to the point of no return, staring directly at the entrance sign to the land of madness? Obviously I’m exaggerating to an extreme right now, but if you were in my position, you wouldn’t be having the best of thoughts either. People say that life is like a rolling hill, constantly going up and down. But for me, it was more like skydiving from the moon to the deepest trench in the ocean at terminal velocity. Now, don’t get all sorry for me and say, “Oh you poor, poor creature! How could you deserve this?”, because I don’t need your sympathy and your sentiment. I’ve given up on caring about others an eternity ago. Which leads to the question, where am I right now? Currently, I am dangling, by one arm, holding on to a branch the size of my foot over a cliff so big, the guy that free-falled from the stratosphere would literally scream himself to death. I have a broken leg, my heel is diced like a tomato, and I have a searing burn wound located in the middle of my palm. And yes, it is the palm of the hand that is the only connection I have between the cold, despair of death, and the dreaded life I’ll go back to if I survive, which is practically impossible at this point. The longer I hang, the warmer Death’s arms and skeletal smile seems to become. If only my dearest friends hadn’t betrayed me. Oh I probably should’ve mentioned how I got here shouldn’t I? Well, I’ll cover the long story later, but for now, here is the short, abridged version. A few guys wanted me dead so I got my two closest friends to help me escape them, but it turns out that my pursuers bribed them, held their families hostage, leading them to inflict my current injures upon me, and push me over the edge of a canyon. What a beautiful world we live in! Now prepare your ears-or your eyes in this case since you’re not listening to this but reading it instead-  for the most convoluted, distressing, hilariously pathetic stories of all time. Isn’t this going to be fantastic!!!!

            It all starts with who I am and where I came from. Well, I’m only 15 with a license to kill, and I have more registered assassinations then the one and only James Bond. That puts a pretty massive bounty over my life, and people really, REALLY like the color green in this world. Money practically sets the boundaries and limitations of our lives. Anyways, I had just returned from a mission called, Specter, where I killed the corrupt, government leader of a little country called  England. Lets just say the people haven’t been following the example of their predecessors very well. Turns out it went wrong; I killed the wrong guy like the stupid idiot I am would. My “target” was actually the leader of the secret organization called Specter, hence the mission title, which I gave it. His facilitates weren’t very pleased with that and came after me faster than a bull who wants to stick his horns right through you. I saw them coming for me, grabbed my besties from our agency, Piper and Nico, and we took off. As we were driving my tire popped, flinging us out of the car, and “coincidentally” placed me on the edge of a canyon. This broke my leg, threw a piece of shrapnel through the end of my heel, and severely burnt hand. They then proceeded to roll me over the edge, while the whole time they monologue and threw the ugly exposition of why they were doing this, and why the HAD to do it. So I fought back as best as I could resulting in them receiving many broken bones and dislocated joints from my superb assassin skills. Luck soon decided to withdraw from my area, because they overpowered me, and finished the job. Or so they thought. While rehashing this story to you, I climbed up the Cliffside, only like 30 feet or some stupid American measurement like that, and am now standing over the container of my death, a.k.a my blown up car. They thought I was dead. I didn’t die. I can’t die. I won’t die. My last breath will be used hunting them down. I will scavenge across the world if I have to. You know what, they did kill me, because part of myself died on that cliff. It is only a ghost, a specter, of who I am now. They turned me into a killing machine. But I’ve malfunctioned, and become aware of what the truth is. Nothing can stop this. They set this course of events into actions. Catalysts are what I’ll call them. And far as its concerned, the Catalysts are good as dead. To me and everyone else. They won’t exist anymore. They’ll simply be ghosts, fragmented images of the past