All is Equal Before Death

Shrill screams echoed off the concrete walls, reverberating helplessly and hopelessly. Not a sound of her horrific last moments would reach the outside world. Her lungs heaved desperately, like they would collapse under the pure stress of her terror. Crimson life blood already dripped from her skin, spotting and smearing against the rough concrete, adding to the countless stains that already marked it. He could see it in her eyes, that final understanding, stricken desperateness. 1

She was bare, not in the literal sense (he wasn't that sick for heaven's sake) but emotionally and mentally. It was the only time, with their set final hour before them, that all people became equal. Law and social pressure no longer controlled their life with a steel, unforgiving hand. It was only when their last breaths could be counted, that all people became truly free and bare. 2

This woman was no longer a CEO of some large company, coming home to abusive husband. She was no longer the class clown in high school, the reject cheerleader in middle school, or the teacher's pet in elementary. Her life story was nullified, meaningless now. The only thing that stood true was her name Cathrine White. The only proof of her existence wasn't the lacy degrees found in her records, it was the rhythmic, quickened thudding beneath her chest. He knew, she knew, that this was the only thing separating her from existence and nonexistence. 3

With her last bit of sanity she pleaded the words that all people pleaded before their final hour. "Please, please. Why are you doing this?"4

Well there was that wad of cash in his back-pocket and suitcase of it that would come after her death. But the man couldn't get himself to lie that flatly, to spit on her like that in the final hours of her life. So he told the truth. "Because I enjoy it," he stated, controlled, bitterly sweet tone. His lips, pale from the many scars that adorned them, curved into a small smile. But the instant they did he chastised himself mentally. This was suppose to be a moment of seriousness, death and misery and he was smiling! Darn the lips that were never controlled very well. 5

"Why me," the pitiful creature whispered softly, curling forward, knotted blonde hair falling in front of her tear stained face. How sad, she was one of the cursed ones. It was the people that sat there, screaming profanities and striking out at him the entire time that he envied. They used their raw emotion to cover up the pain and terror. Too bad he snapped their will each time before the kill. He forced himself to swallow down another smile attempting to surface. Celebration would be left for later.6

"Because I was hired to kill you," he stated more cold toned, each word another weight upon her crushing heart. Now any person in their right mind would be confused by now. Thinks like a serial killer, but works like an assassin, trippy right? Well the nameless bringer of death kept it this way purposely. He knew that all serial killers, no matter how historic, intelligent, and twisted met their ultimatum. But the beautiful, greedy assassins-- man kind at its poetic worse-- managed to avoid this. By using their employers as means to hide their existence from the world, these adroit men and women ended the lives of many important people. They are the silent shapers of the future and he was honored to have the self control and patience to call himself one. 7

The woman, Cathrine, was falling into hysterical sobs now. Her mind had reached the brink, and the man decided it was time to give her peace. Bending down next to her, he made a reassuring cooing noise. He drew her head, knotted and stained with her life blood to his chest. "Shhh, all is okay my dear Cathrine," he whispered softly, much like a lover. "You are now free, free from the suffering and sins of this corrupted world. Now is the time for joy, be brave my dear pigeon and take flight from this cage." 8

Then of all things, the woman clutched closer to his chest, as if in comfort. Poor bird she really must of reached the point deliriousness. Her soft skin, once flawless but now scratched and stained, was caressed by his rough, caring hand. 9

With the other, he drew forth the merciful blade. "Everything is okay now," he whispered, then in one fluid motion brought the knife to her curved back. It pierced painlessly, straight to her woeful heart, and setting the dove finally free. The crimson liquid poured forth, drenching him and the floor, creating a small pool. Lifting himself slowly, he added one last poetic line, "Now escape this world of pain."