It Sucks To Be An Assassin

Assassin (uh-sas-in)

noun 1. a murderer, especially one who kills a politically prominent person for fanatical or monetary reasons. 2. ( initial capital letter ) one of an order of Muslim fanatics, active in Persia and Syria from about 1090 to 1272, whose chief object was to assassinate  Crusaders.

For me; number one. A killer, but not by choice. I was forced into the life before me, death as a threat to my friends and family, and the one person I cared about the most. It's hard to think when a gun is pressed in between your eyes, the person before you a moment's hand from pulling the trigger. The most rational thing to do? Stay still.

Unfortunately for me, I was never the one to be rational. I was the one who threw sewing needles at the teachers, put a tack on the teacher's seat, and once pulled Billy Jone's pants down when he made a freshman cry. I had never been the one to procrastinate.

I acted on instinct, grabbing the gun tilting it up at the sky, before spinning around, taking the person with me. The person had released the gun, falling to the ground, rolling in the grass a bit before jumping to his or her feet. By the time he stood up again, I had the gun pointed in between his eyes, and a devilish smirk tugged at his lips.

His name was Ashley- Ashley Campton, a twenty-one year old from London, sent here to bring me back to a place called 'The Agency' where they trained spies and assassins and killed the bad people in the world. Before I let him drag me into the Agencie's private jet, I forced him to let me run back to my locker at school to grab one thing. Of course him being Ashley Campton, he insisted I take him with me. When the plastics as I like to call them, are ogling over the guy following you like a lost puppy, they tend to give you glares, glares that if looks could kill I would burst into a ball of flames. But then again, I never did care what the plastics had to say. Grabbing the Hollister sweat shirt my ex-boyfriend had given me, I reluctantly followed Ashley out to the short, small limo waiting outside, where three other boys were leaning against.

Snowwy was the one with the pale blond hair; I got why. Maxxy was the one with the fangs and red eyes, who kept on hissing all the time. Storme, storme was the guy with the gray eyes and the wild black hair, who had the hardest, coldest glare you could give anyone. But, before I tell you everything, should we start from the beggining?