Intuition

Intuition One

I am invisible.

 No, I am not a ghost that haunts the mind of Poe, and no, I am not an invisible man. I have green eyes to look into, dark red, silky hair to braid, and soft, pale skin to touch. But no one ever does. I have narrowed the down the top three reasons why.

One: I am quite standoffish, and I don’t really like to socialize. My public scene is usually a questionable alley or abandoned warehouse.

Two: I don’t have many friends. I was homeschooled by my father, and he never let me hang out with people of my own age. Any friends I do have are cranky old men suffering from their late mid-life crises, or murderers who are trying to kill me.

Three: I just happen to be a seventeen year old trained assassin.

            Number three tends to scare some people off, including any potential acquaintances.

When I was the age of ten, my father’s mother was killed by a city gang, because she wouldn’t let them take her purse. My dad had the right to be upset and mourn over her, but he took things a little bit too far. My father vowed revenge on all of the city’s evil-doers. But what started out as a civil duty for innocent citizens, became a crazy, out of control problem only I could fix.

            So I had to go along with him.

            I left my mother, alone, heartbroken, and in tears the day I left when I turned eleven years old. My father, with his bright blue eyes gone cloudy, was smacking the steering wheel impatiently, leaning on the horn heavily. My mother had pleaded for him to stay home, to keep us as a family. But he just ignored her. As I headed over to my father’s car to be on our way, I looked over my narrow shoulder to see my mother in her pink plush nightgown, her eyes red and puffy, and shiny tear tracks running down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and crossed her arms, like that was the only way she could hold herself up. The sight made a hot, painful choke arise in my throat. I couldn’t bear the heart-wrenching sadness. But I remembered my father’s early training, to always stay strong.

            I slowly walked across the gravel driveway to the car my father was driving in. It was a black Jeep Wrangler, with the roof off. You could see our supplies piled high in the backseats. The fabric of the suitcases we had was bright and lively. No one would ever guess that weapons of mass destruction were tucked away inside. My footsteps crunched ominously as I walked away from everything I have ever known, and I reached for the passenger seat handle, ready to begin a new life from an old one that had barely begun. I stole one more glance back at my mother, who was already starting to sob again. This time, my sorrow could not be contained. I let out a long, drawn out cry as I sprinted back across the drive to my mother, who opened her arms and let my dive onto her shoulder, my head burrowing deep in her comforting arms. I let out loud, shaky sobs, and my tears were flowing like a river. My body was shuddering as she began stroking my hair, over and over again, until I stopped crying. I had to pull myself away from her, because I knew re-attachment would make things worse. I put on a brave face and stuck my hand out to her. She looked at my small hand in surprise. She didn’t know what to do with it. So I grabbed her hand for her and shook quickly. There. All done.

             I quickly turned on my heel and power walked back to the Jeep. A hard, cold look from my father meant a horrible punishment later. But I didn’t care. I would not see my mother ever again. That would only so if she were to be one of my targets. But that would never happen.

***

            So here I am, six years later, trained by the top martial arts masters in the world, and able to tear off a grown man’s arm with my bare hands. I’ve never had to actually perform that task, but I’m capable of it. It’s not something I’m proud of, but hey, right now it’s my duty and the reason my father is actually taking care of me.

            At the moment I’m eavesdropping on my dad and some weird dude whose face I couldn’t see when he came into our private condo this afternoon. They’ve been talking in muffled voices, so I can barely hear them, but I understand that they are discussing me, and my ‘talents.’ I hear someone slam their fist on the table. Profanity is tossed around, but not threatening. I pressed my ear harder against the plaster wall, but I still can’t make out what they’re chatting about. They agree on something I didn’t hear, and suddenly I hear them exit my dad’s office. My keen ears pick up the sound of their footsteps walking down the corridor to my room… and I immediately sense them standing outside my bedroom door. What do they want?

            “Yvonne?” I hear my father call through the door.

            “Yeah, dad?” I answer back.

            “I have a chore for you.”

            “Okay…” I respond slowly, my muscles tensing. My stomach twisted itself into a knot, and I felt like I was going to be sick. I put a hand in front of my mouth and closed my eyes, waiting for my father to speak again.

            There is a slight pause before I hear my father’s call through the door.

            “I need you to kill someone for me.”