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Writing Prompt - 12 Year Old Son of a Professional Assassin

My mother was dead. I lived with my father, who had no intention of getting married again. It would only add another name to his list of people he had to protect. A long list wasn't worth it in both of our books. I respected my dad, he did a good job at what he did. I didn't necessarily want to do what he did, but I didn't have a bias against it. Most people did. My father was always blunt about what he did and from the moment I could keep a secret.

"Son, what I do isn't looked upon as good, because it isn't. I get hired by rich folks to kill people they want dead. Assassin, mercenary, hitman, I've been called 'em all. But there is a difference between me and others like me. I don't believe in killing without purpose. Killing someone because they're in your way or you don't like 'em isn't purpose. Getting paid, protecting loved ones or the general public, that's purpose. You wanna know why your mother died? Someone was killing without purpose, and she got in their way."

He was so stoic and calm all the time I could never tell what he was thinking. I knew that he felt for my mother and was devastated at her passing, but never once had I seen him shed a single tear over her death. Not as if I remembered my mother, I was just a baby when she was murdered, so I felt no sadness about her death.

From the second I could comprehend speech as a toddler, my father instilled in me that I was never, ever, to touch his work supplies. Once I grew a little more, I recognized the danger in them and no longer had any temptations to play with them. Besides, it's not like he left then lying around the house, he kept them in his work office, that was directly beneath his bedroom, surrounded by ten feet of concrete and steel. I couldn't have gotten into there even if I wanted to. He constantly carried some of his supplies around the house. Sometimes only one small item, sometimes many, strapped to his shoulder blades and holstered menacingly on his belt. When he would come home - sometimes injured, most of the time he was fine - he would sit on the couch across from me and watch me as I would do my homework, casually inspecting some form of weapon in his hand: knife, baton, machete, arrow, gun, rifle, you name it, he owned it. Although I'd never been inside his office before, I knew he also had grenades, and many forms of poison held there from conversations I'd had with him before.

Recently, my twelfth birthday had occurred and my father considered this the age - as he had informed be countless years before - when a boy should become a man. But it didn't mean that all twelve year olds did. In fact, most of my classmates were rather immature and obnoxious, driving me crazy. Now, I avoided them for the most part, spending lunch in the library reading about physics. That, as my father said, was the most important subject anyone could learn. It talks all about how the world works, and how you can use it to your advantage. You learn how hard or soft you should throw a knife depending on its weight and shape, how wind speed and direction can affect a bullet or arrow, etc. It's all he ever talked about - besides me of course. He worried about me immensely, constantly asking if I was being bullied at school, or if I needed help with help with my homework. I would always say no, and it was true. The other kids never acknowledged me, and I liked it that way. Then I would have an excuse to stay silent all of class except when the teacher called on me, which was a rare occasion. Most of my teachers only asked questions of the other students to make themselves look smarter than everyone, and I was never wrong. So they never called on me. I probably could have skipped a few grades, but I didn't want to trouble my father with having to get that all situated, when he had work to do all day every day.

Finally, the day after my twelfth birthday, my father sat me down and put a small blade in my hands.

"Throw it."

"At what?" I asked, keeping a calm poker face, but inside I was a bag of nerves and excitement.

"My hand," He replied calmly, holding his hand up, his elbow making a right angle. I hesitated, was he serious? Taking a deep breath, I flung the blade at my father's open palm. I closed my eyes, but when nothing happened, I opened them again hesitantly. My father held the blade by its handle, unharmed.

"What..." I breathe, he chuckles.

"To properly throw a knife, you've got to know how fast your blade rotates. Otherwise you could end up just hitting the target with the but of your knife," He instructs me. I nod, and take the knife back.

"You want me to throw it at your hand again?" I chuckle, and he stands, ruffling my hair playfully.

"Maybe another time. You hold onto that, I have work to do."