Before I Leave You

what a young girl should not know

They say some memories never leave you. That if you carry them with you long enough, they become a part of you forever, haunting you until you can no longer remember who you were before them — if you were ever you at all.

As you draw your eyes open and feel the faint traces of your memories from that day still lingering through your mind like a dream refusing to fade, you entertain the element of truth behind such words.

You try to blink away your sleep, but fragmented images of that day continue to flash through your head. A blue, cloudless sky overlooking your eight year old self, purple bellflowers dancing against the breeze as you pick them out of your family garden's estate, armed men with police badges raiding your home, your mother's face morphed in horror as she runs to protect you, and her blood, splattered across the bellflowers in your garden as her unmoving body lands with a sickening thud at your feet.

Your memories of that day harbor only pain and heartache, yet you refuse to let them go.

As a child, they tormented your dreams. You'd wake up screaming, with tears in your eyes, calling for a mother who would never come.

But your father was quick to take care of that, refusing to let his first and only child succumb to such crippling behavior.

By the age of ten, he had taken all those tears of yours and turned them into rage. He had rid you of all your soft edges and forged you into a weapon, replacing your grief and sorrow with a hungry need for vengeance.

He'd armed you with purpose.

Your half-lidded eyes slide over to your gun waiting patiently for you on your bedside table, along with your knife and blades. All weapons he had gifted you over the years.

Throwing your covers aside, you move to get up, noticing how strong the sun's rays are already peeking behind the emerald green curtain from your window. You make it as far as the side of your bed before you are forced to hunch over with a groan.

"Fuck," you hiss as you press a hand against your head, the morning hangover finally settling in.

In honor of Sasha's birthday the day before, you'd treated her and the rest of your team and bought out one of the most luxurious restaurants in town for the night, where you'd divulged in more than your fair share of drinks with them in celebration.

You knew your cadre were still mourning for Marco, but this life didn't allow you time to grieve. You either carried on with it or you let it consume you. And your team was damaged enough as it was, so neither were acceptable choices for them. So you offered them an outlet to help drown their sorrows, ordering bottles and bottles of rum, whiskey, bourbon, vodka; and by joining along with them, they could not refuse.

You sit on your bed for a moment with your elbows resting on your knees and your head in the palm of your hands, waiting for the throbbing headache to subside.

For a brief moment, you feel the weight of exhaustion lie heavily over your shoulders. The temptation to rest against it, alluring and sweet like poison.

But that image of your mother's blood spread out all over the flowers in your garden still burns vividly in your mind and you raise your head. A steely look of determination visible in your eyes as you stand and reach for your gun.

You pop the barrel open and give it a spin as you check your bullets before locking it back in place with a satisfying click. You tuck it into the holster under your arm and move on to your blades, placing them discreetly throughout your person.

Every morning you revisit that day in your memories, sharpening them as you would your blades so they don't dull and fade. All the pain, and fear, and suffering they wake inside you, you latch onto like an anchor. You let it fuel you. Serving you as a reminder of what was done to you all those years ago. Never letting you forget that there would be no rest for you until you made every last one of those men responsible for your mother's death suffer the way you suffered.