a ruthlessness, like a murderer.
creeping silently, fearful initially.
as you held your knife, unable to impale.
"Do it for me!"
a hand went forward, and pushed gently.
the blade sunk in, the blood was emptied,
and a person was left fallen.
Assassins dont start off as killer machines.
Lunging the blade, a squirmy sense of guilty conscience?
But they had quotas, headcounts to meet.
as more heads fell, calm and orchestrated replaced guilt and weakness.
quick and decisive, every slice became professional.
killings no longer went for numbers.
as the sadistic joys kicked in,
mocking the people who were targeted again and again.
torturing them with little wounds until they were removed from existence.
A milestone.
the 70 mark.
never believed to have reached, but somehow made its way.
seeing enough blood on the stained hands,
they shall change professions.
but the killings will always be testament of the ability.
an ability, appreciated, no less.
Labels: expression, memory
