The Schemer

Lie To Me

It is a strange thing how one single thing going wrong could flip over one's whole life. One. SIngle. Thing. Suddenly, you're left staring at the ashes of your previous life, left with nothing but empty sheets of paper, which used to be your existence's history. Pages that either has to be rewritten or destroyed completely. 

An inhuman shriek echoed in the white room, reflecting off the walls and intensifying multiple times. Clara did not recognize nor even see people in white coats running inside, her crazed eyes kept searching only for the invisible arm, trying to feel, to move the phantom limb. The moment she felt a gentle touch, a shake on her unwounded shoulder, the woman jerked backwards, trying to escape the sensation. She moved around, avoiding multiple sets of gloved hands, all the time screaming. Her throat hurt from the unusually high sounds, voice chords unused to the heightened pitch. 

As abruptly as it started, Clara's shouting disappeared, reducing to occasional moan and groan, until finally, her eyelids dropped, too heavy to keep them opened. An elderly, grey-haired nurse with keen, soft eyes injected her a syringe of clear liquid, taming the demons within the assassin's mind. But the darkness that came was not as quiet as one would expect. No, it was filled with figures and colours that one couldn't escape. Like a dream from which you can't wake up.

Clara felt herself being pulled towards her past experiences, the ones that she craved running away from. Suddenly, she felt the same old grief all over again, reading a letter that James had asked her to give his mother before the final and fatal departure. 'Usually, when I write a letter,' it said, 'it is very much overdue and I make every effort to give it away quickly. This letter, however, is different. It is a letter that I hoped you would never receive, as it is a verification of that black-edged card that you received a while ago, and which has caused you so much grief. It is because of that grief that I wrote this letter, and by the time you have finished it, I hope it has done something good, and I have not written it in vain.' Her heart broke once more just like it did at that moment, and the present Clara, a tiny part hiding within her old brain, shouted her memory self to stop reading, to withhold this agony. 'It is very difficult to write now future things in the past tense, so I return to the present. Tomorrow we're going into action. As yet, we do not know exactly what our job will be, but I have no doubt it will be a dangerous one, during which many lives will be lost, mine could be one of them. Well, mom, I'm not afraid to die. I like this life, yes. For the past two years, I've planned and dreamed and laid out a perfect future for myself. I'd like that future to materialize, but it is not what I will, but what God wills. And if by sacrificing all this I leave world slightly better than I found it, I'm perfectly willing to make that sacrifice. Don't get me wrong, mom. I'm no flag-waving patriot, nor had I ever professed to be. America's a great country, the best that there is. But I can't honestly and sincerely say that is it worth fighting for it. Nor can I imagine myself fighting for the liberation of Europe. It's a nice thought, but I don't want to fool myself. No, mom. My world is centred around you, and my dad. My friends, too. You're worth fighting for. If my sacrifice includes the well-being of you, it is worth fighting for. Now, I've already stated I'm not afraid to die and am perfectly willing to do so if you will be benefiting in any way. If you do not, then my sacrifice is all in vain. Have you benefited, mom? Or have you cried and worried yourself sick? I fear it is the later. Don't you see, mom, it will do me no good? In addition, it will undo all the good work I've been trying to do. Grief is useless. It does neither you nor me any good. I want no flowers.No epitaph and tears. All I want is for you to remember me, feel proud of me. Then shall I rest in peace, knowing that I've done a good job. Death is nothing final or lasting. It is just a stage in everyone's life. To some, it comes early, to some late, but it will come in no time.' Something old and malicious overpowered Clara's numb body. Sweat ran down along her eyebrow, seeping out of her pores, eyes moving underneath the lids.