<body>
I am running away from reality, as fast as i could.
and trying not to look back, so as to prevent my eye from tearing.
Profession Monday, January 22, 2007

"You don't have to this. Killing people cannot be a profession."
These words echoed in my head as a distant sound of a wave hitting the rocky shore. On that day those words made little sense and perhaps marked the end whatever humanity was left in me. As the cool wind whips through my hair, I looked down from the terrace of a tall building. I have been here for an assignment before. What I did for survival during my younger years, became my bread (should I say cake???) in future. I lived in a place where there was a warped sense of right and wrong; good and evil were phrases which would be written in history books in future. Even after I left that place, the horrors of my past caught up with me like a fellow jogger.
I looked at my feet and saw his body. Bullet in the head; dead as a log; courtesy me. His eyes were open, dead and surprised. Well, he wouldn't have expected me to be his assassin. Was there disappointment in his eyes too? I couldn't tell. I sit at the edge of a terrace where one step further would take me down twenty four floors to the ground. I idly wonder what it would have happened if I had pursued our almost romance. A sob escapes my throat and shakes my body. In few minutes am crying for my dear life clinging to his body. At that moment I would have given everything in this world to go back to the things they were. I know that I had to get out of here soon before someone saw me with him. But for the first time, I didn't care. I take a last look at his face. It looks as though he is mocking me; mocking me for the coward that I am. It starts raining and blood around me starts to wash away. I walk till the edge of terrace and decide to see if I can fly.
The fall is glorious. But the impact on earth is not.


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