The Agency

Chapter: One

 My therapist said I should write in a diary, to write about my life since I won't tell her about my past. Of course, I told her that I won't do something so stupid, but that didn't stop her from sliding a little pink notebook and a matching pink pencil, and then proceeding to explain to me how a diary works. I know how a diary works, I just don't find them useful.

Now I sit on my couch in my apartment, thinking about what to write without hating myself for my poor writing and terrible grammar. I've had that problem recently, regretting everything I did, or rethinking everything I do before I even do it.

The reason I don't explain my past to my therapist is rather simple. I'd be rotting in jail before I could even explain the reason I left... though that might've made it worse. Yes, I know that there's something called 'patient confidentiality,' but you'd call the police when your patient says their first kill was when they were twelve.

I think it all started at the ripe old age of seven, when I suffered from a common thing called 'dead parents disorder.' They died in a car crash that the police said was a simple hit-and-run. I have no memory of another car being involved.

After that, I moved in with my uncle, who I lived with for four years, until he left me in the hands of The Agency.

You might ask why it's called The Agency, and it's a simple answer. Nobody knows the real name of The Agency, so as the assassins there needed to use code words for their workplace, they started using The Agency instead of something stupid like Killing People Agency (KPA for short).

As I stare at my ceiling, contemplating life, I hear a soft knock at the door. I questioned not opening it and pretended I was a dead corpse. Then my mind thought about what I'd look like as a dead corpse. That's when I knew I needed to stop thinking for a bit, so I stood up and wondered who could be visiting me, since I don't really talk to people. As the old apartment door opened, nobody was on the other side. I stared at the empty space where a person should be, and came out empty. And then I did the most stupid thing I could do and looked down.

It was a simple letter with a gold candle wax seal. I crouched down to pick it up and retreated into my apartment after closing and locking the door. As I opened the letter, there were only five simple words on it: 

"We still love you. –Dad."