Secrets - [DISCONTINUED]

Chapter 1

An alarm jolts me awake from my dreamless slumber.

It is 3 am. Time to get ready.

Groggily, I roll over to turn the alarm off but I end up falling off the bed. As I lie there on the floor, I close my eyes. A deep sigh escapes from me. I wonder how many more lives I shall take today.

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Last night, I took the life of the chief commander of the Soviet Communist Republic. I was able to get close enough thanks to my undercover rank as the chief commander's second-in-command's daughter.

As I began to feign common intellectual interest with my victim, they took me to their main office to have a chat, presumably to recruit me for the Soviet army. Taking my chance, I crept up behind them and slowly slipped my knife out of the scabbard, strapped within the folds of my skirt, and positioned my arm, ready to cut the throat of my victim.

My eye caught their eye in the reflection, and I realized I was too late.

Suddenly, a dark laugh escaped from their lips as they turned around and lifted a military-styled handgun, and aimed it straight at my head. I froze, and slowly, keeping the knife within the folds of my skirt, I grabbed my own handgun and positioned myself to aim straight at their head.

"So this must be the secret that the States kept from us! Never knew it would just be a mere teenage girl."

As the chief chuckled, I realized they had a long-range taser in the other hand, perhaps to zap me unconscious with and make an example out of me. We stood there holding each other's gaze and I knew that, unless I made the first move, I would die.

As quickly as I could, I threw my knife at their shoulder, dropped on the ground, and rolled behind one of the massive potted-plants by the door. When I heard a satisfying yelp of pain from the chief, I knew my aim was true. But there were more important things.

They started to shoot with dangerously good accuracy, expected, especially from how well-trained all soldiers of the Soviet Communist Republic were.

I needed to kill them, and fast.

I knew I couldn't use my gun because bullets can be easily traced, something that I would like to avoid. As I slip out my knife from the hidden scabbard strapped to my ankle, I carefully scan the room.

There wasn't much I could do except reveal my hiding spot.

I yelped out a fake cry of pain and cradled my right arm. The sound attracted the attention of the chief. As they looked upon me, the chief seemed a bit skeptical over the prospect of me becoming injured.

But the hesitation was all I needed.

I swung my right leg and hit them hard on the back of the knee, causing my victim to fall. As they fell, I managed to stab in-between the ribs, eliciting, yet another, satisfying yelp of pain. But it was apparent that my victim was used to this pain.

They grabbed my left leg and twisted it.

A burst of pain exploded from my left ankle, but despite the pain, I kicked them in the face and twisted my leg out of the chief's grip. Slightly limping, I pull my knife out of their rib and stab their neck.

The scream that escaped from my victim was concerning. If I didn't kill the damn chief, I'll have to be content with having myself be brutally tortured by the SCRFIP, the Soviet Communist Republic Foreign Intelligence Police.

As the chief choked and blood dripped from their open mouth, they clawed at the protruding knife, trying to pull it out.

If I am being honest, to see the pain and suffering that my victim was experiencing, was somewhat delightful.

But I knew I had to make the kill.

As my victim suffered, I pulled out my third knife: a cruel, wicked looking dagger that was gifted to me by the United Republic of the States, after I made my first effective murder. This has been the knife I have used, ever since, to kill my victims with.

I walked to stand right above my victim, who managed to take hold of the knife, but thanks to the injuries I gave them, my victim couldn't even use their hand properly, and it hurt to do so.

Holding my knife ready, my victim turned around and looked at me with a heartless, hateful stare. They looked at the knife, and recognized the death I was about to perform on them.

They tried to push me over with full-body force, but I was ready.

I quickly moved out of the way and kneed my victim in the jaw, and sliced their vocal cords. As my victim's eyes rolled back, the figure, the hollow shell of my victim, fell shoulder-first to the ground.

Blood pooled on the floor from the wound on their throat. The familiar smell of death filled my nostrils: the stench of blood from a freshly dead body.

Now to dispose of the body . . . . .