She looked through the window pane to the end of the earth, and glanced back with a wicked smile, she wondered if a reset button existed.
The rain drops washed the surface of the window pane while she wondered how she could wash her soul.
She knew the answer lied in the dark night outside, but she could not venture forth without her protective shell who was now gone.
She laughed at her inner demons; after all, what future could replace her vibrant past?
In service of the rulers of her land she had delved into the art of violence and subterfuge.
Like an ever returning phoenix she had performed her service repeatedly unto those so designated to be the recipients of her obligations.
A panorama of accents had cried out in prayer to their God while being subjected to her tradecraft.
Combining the fluency of many languages, with the articulation of a princess, and the fighting skills of a warrior, she had eliminated those who impeded the progress of her employer.
What many would call a professional assassin had been her professional calling for the better part of her adulthood.
Now with the initial advent of middle age she pondered a life of respite from the tasks doled out to her like a cascading waterfall.
She caressed her thighs, and wondered if her slender legs had been promised to a ballerina. Her physical form would make any man reach out for the promise of intimacy, while her sparkling eyes welcomed the dreams of love.
Her mind retrieved the memories of love which she once experienced, but where they wishful fabrications or remnants from another life?
The sound of the nock at the door climbed up the narrow staircase and made its way into her awareness.
Instinctively she reached for the weapon of war that rested below her nightstand, a cold piece of metal which delivered its messengers of death with the strength of a volcano.
Gingerly her legs took her down the wooden staircase, past the portraits of familiar places, towards the heavy wooden door.
Through the peephole she observed the messenger weighted down by the heavy downpour.
She knew the content of the message by simply examining the shadows of his expression.
Her retirement had been sealed in stone by her former employer, and now the messenger stood on the other side of her door, ready to perform his duty.
With a simple gesture befitting a modern dancer, she brought her weapon to the peephole and pressed the trigger with a certainty that would make a teacher sing her praise.
As the bullet entered the inner sanctum of the messenger’s body, she was already racing for the back door of the ancient house.
Greeting her before she could make a graceful exit were the companions of the messenger, with expressions of ardent professionalism they aimed their guns at their target.
As her heart readied to beat its final pulse, a silhouette emerged from the shadows and unloaded a fuselage of fire unto the two trained killers.
Her shock at still being among the living was overruled by the happiness of recognizing her savior as he reached out for her cheek.
While they had parted as friends, they once shared a chapter as ardent lovers of the first kind.
Her former lover, and current knight of salvation, led her out through the backdoor into the deluge of rain.
Without hesitating he dispatched an approaching assailant as if he was simply extending greetings to an old friend.
Holding hands as high school sweethearts they disappeared through an opening in her neighbor’s fence, and made their way to his car.
As his Jaguar XK made its way to the highway she glanced at the rearview mirror knowing that the night was still young.
Distracted by the gentle caress of his palm her mind transported her to the warm beach they once professed their love on. But as the reality of their professions dictated, their love could only exist within their imaginations.
For in reality, their days were limited to the service they provided to their masters.
If not for shared assignments there would have been no shared passions. The fulfillment of love had been sacrificed on the altar of national service. Acceptance of their roles had precluded the normalcy of social relations experienced by their fellow mankind.
She hoped that he as well wondered if it was not too late to start anew. Could they discover a place where they could start a family of their own?
His eyes never left the road which they now swiftly traveled on. Exit signs, overpasses, moving vehicles, all blended into the scenery as the late hours of the night invited the early dawn.
After what seemed like an eternity of travel the luxury vehicle drove unto a small country road that led to an old country home.
She wondered if the familiarity of the house was a mirage her mind created, or had she once spent time under its humble roof.
His lips moved through the crisp morning, emitting words of comfort and encouragement.
Although safe harbor was promised by her companion, they both knew that by evening they would find themselves elsewhere.
Her pursuers would offer no respite, so at most they could spend the day planning their strategic escape.
Pressing his mouth to her lips of honey he led her to the consummation of their love.
Was it the peril of their situation, or was it their search for a lost youth? Their love making attracted the attention of the divine angels of above.
A child would be conceived on this holy night, a child who harbored the DNA of two living weapons of mass destruction.
They parted once again as friends as she climbed the plank of the cruise ship, a ship which would anchor on the distant shores of South America.
As her motherly instincts guided her, she raised the child with the finest qualities of nurture.
Years went by and the child became a man, a man who attracted the attention of the ancient masters of his parents.
His training would often seem unnecessary, a fine prodigy he was destined to become.
Wearing the official mark of his government he was sent abroad to wage its wars.
His masters marveled at the prominence that their young warrior displayed.
How could they be to blame when they grew nostalgic?
Was it his grasp of the art of diplomacy, his fluency in languages, or his supreme fighting skills?
The ancient masters compared his picture to the files, and confirmed their suspicions; he was the child of their previous employees.
But his usefulness precluded them from divulging this great secret to their young servant.
Convinced that his father had perished in war, and his mother was but a poor teacher out to save the world, the lad continued his quest of servitude.
But as is the way of all secrets that seek to escape their dreary cells, the truth revealed itself one day.
On assignment in Afghanistan he met with a semi senile elder of a tribe who swore that they had met once before. Producing a ragged black and white picture the elder pointed to an older version of the lad.
If it wasn’t for the age of his mother, he could have swore that he now looked at the picture of an older brother. But if not a brother, could he not be holding the picture of his father?
Six months later his mother cried on his shoulder as she revealed the truth of the years that led to his creation.
Her words enveloped him like a warm bath, as he looked at his surroundings in a new light.
Demanding that he promise to withhold retribution from her former masters, she recognized the purposeful gaze of her son, a look she had last seen on her former lover.
Saying his goodbye he returned to the service of his masters, but this time with a secret of his own.
For in his knowledge of the truth he now held the promise of future vengeance.
