My Fathers Killer

LUCIAN - chapter 3

June 4th

How could I possibly know that the woman with the hauntingly familiar hands was the one who took my father's life? Well, it all comes down to the security cameras positioned at the port.

Whisper cleverly shielded her face from view, however, she couldn't keep her hands hidden; showcasing the striking gladiolus flower tattoo on her right. With the intricate surrounding sketches, it would be an impossible coincidence.

I have no intention of causing her any harm; if anything, I owe her a debt of gratitude. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't have brought myself to kill my father. It would have shattered the trust I've built with the underworld, and after my father's retirement, no one else would have bothered with the inconvenience of his murder.

If I could, I would have the answers to all of the burning questions in my mind, but specifically: why now?

Either someone got bored of his existence, or, my father committed one last crazed, yet unknown, action that caused his suffering and ultimate end.

One thing different to usual- Whisper usually wears a full mask during her assassinations, I don't know why she didn't for my father; maybe she hated him so much that she needed him to look his killer in the eyes. My father did many things, he killed innocents, he was involved with kidnapping and selling women, I know he was also involved in raping them, he stole, he cheated, he did every single thing I work so hard to make extinct in these days.

Maybe that's why Whisper showed more of herself to him than anyone else; to prove that a woman could be and was so much more powerful than him. Since before I was born my father had a hatred for women, the reason has forever been unknown but we don't need one. No matter what happened to cause his enmity, he was still purely just a fucking asshole.

I could spend hours trying to convince myself that I'm a good human being, and sure, compared to many others in the mafia world I am, but to civilians, I'm a bloodthirsty monster.

I'm a bad person, all murderers are- so why should I waste energy on trying to be something I'm not?

I don't believe in mistakes or second chances, I don't repeat myself, I don't care for other people's feeling or how families will be left when I kill the man on the receiving end of my gun. I suppose I'm considered 'harsh' to other people. I don't spare any lives in this world, if you try to go against me, you're dead. It's as simple as that, I've made that clear and people still try. It's blatant suicide. 

Yesterday, I got my 'hacking' team to get into the street cameras to follow Whisper from the funeral as far as possible so I could get... anything on her.

We had only gone 10 minutes down the road when she suddenly disappeared.

I plan on waiting in my car at her last known location. Usually, I'd give someone else that job but since I'm not killing her, I thought I'd go a different route.

I woke up not too long ago, I find it hard to fall asleep and even harder to stay in that state, It was almost 4 am when I got too restless and headed to the house gym for an hour.

I step into the kitchen, the clock on the wall showing its 5:15 am, the sun hasn't risen yet leaving the room in a soft blue hue.

Rain drizzles like tears down the large glass windows, the soft patter of the showering clouds filling the silence.

As I stretch my arms above my head, I set the coffee machine to make my drink; caffeine is the only thing to help my daze right now.

I take the fresh cup and sip on the burning liquid as I make my way to the elevator and up to my bedroom, it's the only one on the floor and the largest out of all of the rooms. I got it decorated to my taste, dark yet comforting, modern yet cosy.

I head through to my bathroom, turn the shower on, and step under.

Every day I torture myself. I don't know why.

As stupid as it sounds, every single fucking time I shower in cold water, I'm commiting to excruciating torment... from myself.

When I was 12, my father began a new age of training; in that time he started taking me out to the lake not far from our house and holding me under the icy surface.

I would burn, I would beg him to stop but he never did, he never even cared.

He only stopped once I turned 15 and he thought of new ways to damage me, but since then, bathing and showering in even moderately cold water brings me right back to that frightened little boy.

Part of me needs it- needs the hurt. The other part hates that I relate myself to my father. Why- why would I try and be anything like him? His methods, his language, his abuse. Today, I do it to myself; what if I find myself hurting my own family- my own son?

It's amusing that I think I'll ever be able to have a family.

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I've been sitting in the driver's seat of my car for a few hours now, patiently waiting for any sign of Whisper.

There's no guarantee that she'll come past- so once again, I just need to have pure luck on my side. I'm not sure why I'm trying this desperately to see her, the most I have to say is 'thank you', though even that would be unnecessary. She was only doing her job.

If miracles existed, Whisper would work for me. Unfortunately, they're nothing but a myth. She has been offered millions upon millions of dollars to work for other mafias and every single proposal has been instantly rejected. To have her working for me is nothing but a fantasy where fairies roam the streets and unicorns are kept as pets.

A car speeds past, the number plate showing the same as Whisper left in. I let out a grateful mutter and follow her direction into the city; hopeful to capture a true glimpse of the killer.

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My dog just sneezed in my eye #goingtokms

T