Confessions of an Assassin

Dear Diary,

There are still about 13 pages left in you, but unfortunately they won’t be graced by my gruesome tales of murder, deception, espionage and innumerable assassinations anymore. My last kill has landed me in a mess, and I fear that they would be sending a cleaner to wipe out me, and any unwanted traces I have left behind. I had a feeling that this day would come, and that losing concentration and patience in this kind of a job demands an explanation to the ’employers’, the law, and to my wife and child. The latter two, however, would only get to see the end of my pointless life as the headline of a top town newspaper, and I would like to thank the cleaners who would be arriving in about an hour for erasing my existence before my girls’ questioning little eyes try to lift the veil I have been hiding behind all this time.

You might ask why I never bothered about my afterlife, about the unbearable shame on the judgment day... for that I have a reasonable answer, which is a lot clearer to me now. The ever growing hypocrisy inside my mind was vanquished totally the day I held a silenced handgun in my gloved hands, the day I wanted a helpless soul to breathe its last in front of my very eyes as I tightened the wire around its soft white neck. I spoke to God face to face the night I shot the minister in the head. He was right there his eyes... stunned, frightened, horrified and squirming with pain. The smiles and content laughs on my employers’ faces and those black suitcases full of cash were enough to give me a new meaning of life... a life where love, hate, anger, friendship, and all the petty emotions have no meaning at all.

But tonight, I feel very near to God, as if he is right beside me trying to comfort me.

I have no idea who might read this after my imminent untimely death, whether they would burn it along with the rest of my belongings here in the hideout or would hand it over to my wife. But what I know is that someone out there would read this someday, and if he or she is kind enough, maybe I would be relieved of my sins through his silent prayer. Maybe he would have pity upon my heartless solitary course of life and would hide these pages safely in a secluded corner of his room so that this personal immortalization remains personal with its dignity preserved.

Dear kind reader, I confess that I murdered the son of business tycoon just because my employers wanted him emotionally imbalanced, ultimately getting him out of the way of their progress. I remember how I lured him away from a gathering on a happy occasion, and slit his throat with a knife that I carried all the time with me, and how I dragged his body silently towards an open courtyard so that his father could see the lifeless bleeding body of his son later that night.

Please God, forgive me for that.

I confess that I cold heartedly murdered the old grandfather of three small children who lived in an old house in the heart of the city, even though I did not feel like doing it. Their crime: a hindrance in the development of a 5-star hotel adjacent to their house. The hotel hired my employers to eliminate the old man, and I was assigned the task. I could almost see my own girl in the eyes of those children as I threatened them not to move after I had stabbed their grandfather in his back and was escaping through the back door. Now I know why I could not sleep that night even after consuming a considerable amount of alcohol.

Please God, forgive me for what I did.

I confess that I never gave my child the attention she needed. I ignored her deliberately when she wanted me most. She probably would remember me as an empty person; maybe she would forget me and wouldn’t even think of me as a father, a supporter. Her mother has already an affair with another man, but I don’t mind that. I just want to see them happy and not to worry about someone as miserable as myself.

Please God, give my child the strength and patience, and forgive me for what I have done.

I can hear the footsteps of the cleaner on the wooden stairs now, and the rattle of his weapon inside the black suitcase us assassins always carry. Why do I have this strange sense of fear in my heart all of a sudden? I never knew I was such a coward, and was so sure that the angel of death was a good friend of mine. I feel like a rat, a pathetic rodent trying to find a place to hide, but can’t. I almost feel re-born minutes before my death. Why does this tear running down my cheek now feel so warm and relieving, as if the burdens of my entire life are slowly going downhill into a deep dark chasm? Hah, I guess it doesn’t matter anymore; all that matters now is why he is taking so long in barging in through my door with a weapon aimed right at my forehead.

I don’t know if I would be able to complete this page because I can hear his heavy breathing right outside my door. I wish I had the heart to write this flood of emotions inside me right now in the next few seconds. But I fear that death would leave this essay incomplete and I would die painfully with a million thoughts still trapped inside my shattered soul.

If my daughter is reading this by any chance, I want to tell her how sor

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