cold | k.s.b

Prologue

Loving is not a word I would use to describe my father. He was stern. He was proud. And he was cruel. He didn't nurture me, as that was a mother's job. 

I never met my mother. Though I like to imagine her sometimes. She was dainty. She was perceptive. And she was good. When I would ask my father about my mother, his response held true. 

"She isn't here. Caring for someone in their absence makes you stupid. If you are stupid, you are weak. Do not be weak" followed by an aggressive strike across the face. I slowly stopped asking about my father to steer clear of any new beatings. But my fascination with discovering who she was never left.

My father trained me in the art of killing. Art being his choice of words, not mine. He was an assassin, soon to be retired, and his last objective was to make certain that someone was in line to take his place. Somewhere along the line, he decided I was the best option. Or maybe I was the only option. Nonetheless, I was in training to be the head assassin of the Ma-Ri family. The preparation was grueling. Not for the faint of heart. The weekly schedule goes as follows: 

Mondays were for hand to hand combat. No weapons. No rules. Just my father and I attacking each other, exchanging blow after blow.

Tuesdays were for gun practices. We went to a private shooting range along the Haeundae beach. If i forgot the name of a certain gun, he would strike me with it.

"Maybe if I hit you, you'll finally remember the name of the damn thing." He mocked me. He made me feel small. 

If I missed a target, it wasn't a blow to my face, but to my arms. He said they were weak. Too weak to carry a gun. I was unworthy to him.

Tuesdays told me I was pathetic.

Wednesdays were stamina and strength training. Working out being a more common way to word it. Running, boxing, swimming, I was good at it all. Whatever anger my father had pent up after Tuesday was replaced with pride, due to my consistently impressive performance.

Wednesdays told me I was lean.

Thursdays I had technology and coding. My father taught me the ways of radios and common communication software. He showed me how to speak with code words to my superiors in order to properly update them safely in case our connection got intercepted. My father was a nerd, though I would never tell him that. 

Fridays were isolation. I was locked in a cold dark room for 24 hours. There was no furniture nor any source of light. I couldn't speak to my father nor even see him, other then his hands when he delivered my meals. Fridays drove me insane. I cried. I pulled my hair out. Anything to stop a scream from escaping my mouth. I wouldn't want father to hurt me when I am at my most vulnerable.

Saturdays were drug days. They were vile and dehumanizing. My father pumped a variety of drugs into my veins. He didn't like the word drugs. He used serums instead. I guess it felt easier to use a word with a more positive connotation. But I knew what they really were. Liquid fire. They seeped into my bloodstream with no remorse for the body they were destroying. I couldn't breathe nor move. I was a corpse. 

Occasionally, a tear would spill out of my eye, reminding me that I was still alive. Even if I didn't feel that way. Once the agony died down, I felt stronger and revitalized. Though, in some ways, less human. I never knew what those drugs were but I am grateful for them. They were kind enough to not kill me. I didn't want to die in that sad leather chair with needles in my skin at the young age I was. I wanted to live. I always wanted to live.

Sundays were rest days. I did nothing. My father didn't hurt me. Sundays were peace and preparation. I prayed for Sunday to come quicker every week. I don't believe in God but I thought, maybe someone would answer the pathetic little girl eventually. No one answered. No one came. And no one helped. I was alone. But on Sundays that was okay.