Isabelle Moon
By Gregory Corban
“Is this the girl?” A gruff voice broke my concentration, simultaneously thrusting a girl into my view. At about eight years old she stood to my chest, flowing from the top of her scalp was a river of black, cascading down to her waist. Her petite frame left her vulnerable, exposed to the world. Clinging to her shoulders was a frilly baby blue dress laced with white designs. Even from a quick glance it wouldn’t be hard to gauge the innocence of this child. I could feel guilt trek through my body as I delved into the sight of her eyes.
Fear flooded her face, yet her eyes remained resilient, valiantly trying to remain calm, though no matter the effort, her trembling gave away the amount of fear she held back. The desperate fear which her eyes held clearly was that of an innocent girl, yet I knew truth, I knew of the monster that lie dormant under her eyes. Only time would awaken it.
Why do I make the audacious claim that this guiltless girl houses the spirit of a monster? Because, I saw it. I have seen the desolation which shall befall the world at the hands of this girl. I saw the path of destruction and oppression. Wishing to eradicate the world of evil orders of assassination, desecration, and devastation, were called out from the throne on which she sat. Upon seeing such a revelation, I accepted the task of keeping the world safe, from eight-year-old Isabelle Moon.
“Well?” I was jarred from my memories as the gruff voice pressed me. “Yes,” I replied. I knew what I was doing is good, but, can I do that? Isabelle may be innocent as of now, but if I didn’t do it than the world would pay. Uncertain I looked into the face of Jason McHaven, childhood friend of mine and the only one I trust with the burden of the future. Without him none of this could happen, and I would have certainly gone insane if I didn’t have anyone to share such a task with.
In an attempt to calm myself, I produced my revolver, possessing such a powerful tool in my hands always reassures me. But while the weight of my pistol comforts me, it also reminds me of the responsibility this weapon clearly conveys. I brought the gun between me and a fear-stricken child. Ready to do what could save millions of lives... Boom.
“What was that?” I asked, before my inquiry could be satisfied a horrible wailing met my ears. “What the hell was that?” Jason stormed over to the door, threw it open and dragged in a gray haired sack of flesh. “Who the hell is this piece of crap?” Jason strongly gestured toward the lump of skin he dropped onto a nearby chair. The man looked up into my eyes, with shaggy silver hair, tattered and torn business clothes, and only one concern on his mind, his child. “My daughter?” His stiff neck slowly made its way toward the corner in which my victim to be coward. With a sharp gasp this flea of a man groped about in his pocket, suddenly, in a flash, and with a thud the man’s back was now against a wall.
“I asked who this mound of muscles is!” Jason glared menacingly at the poor old man. “Richard Moon, th-the dad.” “Oh, so this is the filthy rich Mr. Moon, nice to meet you-.” Jason stopped short, with a pit-pat a small flip phone fell to the ground. “911, what is your emergency?” Jason’s face twisted with rage, a hideous, demented rage. His boot came down like a hammer of judgment, utterly demolishing the little piece of tech. His head jerked to my direction. “Well? Do it! We don’t have much time!” I turned my attention to the shaking figure lying in the corner.
