As an observer, I like to pride myself on noticing the little things in life. Sometimes the birds start to chirp earlier on certain days, sometimes the dogs bark late into evening, as if trying to prevent the inevitable silence of the night. Sometimes the cats will sleep in a certain patch, until they realize the sun has changed it course.
The world speaks to you if you only listen, and well...
..all I ever do is listen.
Hair as firey red as they get, and a temper to match sometimes, you'd meet this person in a casino in the late hours of the night. Shuffling those cards, putting on a display for all who would care to see. It felt almost as if she possessed some kind of magic at that table. The cards moved with such fluidity that they almost floated in the air, dancing from one hand to the other. Those card tricks are what intrigued me that night, and so I sat.
A sweet talker, this one, but the words never seem to match the expression entirely. Soft eye bags covered by light makeup, and a strained smile, she carries on as if my eyes are not bearing into her very soul. She carries the conversation, and I don't mind. Like I've said before, I'm an observer, not a talker.
Still it's been 3 hours, and I have no clue how she has so many topics to speak about. Must come with the job.
Tip her $100 and leave, pretending not to notice the shock and joy on her face. Perhaps I will come back.
Day in and day out, I keep coming back. Of course, it's for a mission, but the little flame is an added bonus. I still don't understand how she hasn't run out of topics, but I've started to add my own. Just because I work an emotionless job doesn't mean I don't have the capacity to feel bad.
I tip her a bit more each time, sometimes the joy on her face helps after a long day. Towards the end of my mission, we were almost friends. I even learned her name.
Lilith...
...and then that night happened.
The innocent never deserve to be harmed, and watching her lie there, in a pool of her own blood, reaching, begging to me not to die; that will never leave my head. I may have seen a lot of gruesome scenes, I may have even killed a couple of people myself, but nothing could have prepared me for that night.
Weeks later she's resting at my home, and I care for her along side the tiny hacking roach I've come to almost raise.
Still, I failed somewhere, because he can't even clean his own room. But this isn't about him.
I wait by her bedside, making sure she's alright. There were a lot of stitches, and my in home hospital care is the best there is. The agency can afford it, and I've never used it before, so I was given the best medical professionals out there.
The privilege for selling your soul, I suppose.
When she finally woke up, the light in her eyes was gone. Her dog that I had gone to get (recalling a conversation we had before) was overjoyed to see her awake, licking at her hand and whining, almost begging her to get up and show him that she was alright. Yet she only lyed there, and slowly turned to me.
Before she could even ask, I responded.
"2 weeks"
She keeps telling me she's sorry, and thanking me, for basic decency. I cook for meals for her, give her anything she'd like, and as she gets better, take her out slowly to get clothes and other items. I learned more about her as time continues on, and turns out we're very similar.
