Page 1 of Assistant to the Assassin

“If I were to ask you to describe a good memory, what would you choose?”

I bounce my knee on the navy blue carpet, a nervous tic I haven’t experienced since school when I would be called into the guidance counselor’s office. The feeling of being observed, of being watched, has always made me antsy, and just like back then, I can’t leave until this is done.

“I don’t see how that helps,” I reply stiffly.

“You are haunted by the horrible, traumatic memories of your past, Mr. Cai,” the doctor says, her posture loose and her expression indifferent. Given all that I’ve exposed her to today, her reaction towards me is quite alarming. “It’s important to reframe how we view the past if we are to move on from it. One way to do that is to remind ourselves that all our memories aren’t bad.”

I think for a moment, then I hear myself say, as if at a distance, “Whenever I had a nightmare, my mother would lie down beside me and listen to me describe what I dreamt about. She would run her fingers through my hair and put all of my fears at ease. I remember one time, after I had a particularly bad one, I asked her why we have bad dreams at all. I asked why they can’t all be good.”

“And what did she say?” she asks.

“She said that ‘dreams are a lot like life; there are good and bad because without the bad, we couldn’t appreciate the good.’”

The doctor smiles at that, making a quick note in her notebook. “Wise words. And then what happened?”

“She sang to me.”

She tilts her head to the side in thought. “Did she do that often?”

“Yes.”

She stares at me for a moment, then gestures with a wave of her hand, indicating I should continue. So, I begrudgingly add, “She used to sing ‘Moon River’ to me. From Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

“Why that song?”

“Because it was her favorite,” I reply honestly. “I can still hear her singing it as if she were in the room with me. I can hear the smile in her tone, the joy that song brought to her.”

The doctor places the notebook down, leaning back in her seat. “How did it go?”

“Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves,

but rather give place unto wrath:

for it is written, Vengeance is mine;

I will repay, saith the Lord.”

Romans 12:19 (King James Version)

Would You Pray Before You Twist the Knife?

The man makes a gargling sound as I stab him in the throat. His eyes are wide in fear, his hands clawing at my arms and shoulder in attempt to get me away from him, but I have him pinned to the wall, and I twist the knife in further.

A radio sits on a table with an unfinished game of chess, and Elvis Presley’s “You’re the Devil in Disguise” plays loudly through the speaker, so loud I almost missed the sound of footsteps on the stairs. My first victim slides down the wall, leaving a trail of blood in his wake, and I hope the others won’t be so messy. Blood is a bitch to get off of the walls.

You look like an angel

Walk like an angel

Talk like an angel

But I got wise

You’re the devil in disguise

Oh, yes, you are, devil in disguise

I move over to the space next to the stairs, my knife in one hand and my gun in the other. When the first guy makes it to the bottom step, I shoot him in the side of the head. I hear another man shout, but the noise is quickly cut off when I shoot him in the eye, making him topple down the stairs and land on his friend’s body.

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