The Assassin's Assassin

XII

In a way, he's like me, damaged to a point where there is no turning back at all. Dark spots so deep we could scrub at them till we bleed but they'll still remain.

"Shit, do you ever look back and think 'god, I wish I had just kept pushing to achieve living a normal life?'." I ask as I pop a wedge into my mouth,

"Sometimes, on the rare occasion when I reflect on my past, why do you?" He answers truthfully,

"More often than you'd think nowadays." I breathe and take a big swig of the beer.

"Are you, depressed?" Rye asks cautiously,

"Honestly, I got no fricken idea. Probably, I don't know, maybe? How would I be able to know" I answer with a shrug,

"Going to get a professional diagnosis from a doctor from an official depression test would do it." Rye answers,

"I don't need a doctor." I state firmly a bit too quickly which earns a weird look from Rye, almost, concern?

Several hours and many more drinks later, a mix of beer and spirits, Rye and I were very tipsy, border line drunk. He told me that there's really no point in making your captive suffer if you do a good enough job of ensuring you have them and there's not a sliver of hope of them escaping.

"Come on, out with it, what's the truth and the rest of the story." Rye demands after a while,

"Hm?" I answer a bit confused,

"Who was Katherine before she became the infamous Black Cat?" He asks waving an arm out,

"An only child of only children, she had no uncles no aunties, just her parents and grandparents." I answer and down the scotch in my glass and pour myself more,

"How did this only child of only children become a delinquent?" He asks as he also pours himself some more whiskey,

"It started with a thirst for revenge, Bruce Wayne style, on her parent's killers. But that wasn't the worst of their crimes. They took the now orphan Katherine and did stuff to her. Stuff no little girl should ever have to endure. By the time the little girl was rescued, it was too late, she had been raped one too many times, beat one too many times, taunted one too many times, starved one too many times, parched one too many times. Something inside that little girl snapped, something awoke in her that would never go away. No amount of drugs, therapy, or treatment could fix or undo what had been done." I drone on and chug down the scotch. I clear my throat after that and look up to see Rye's pale face, wide eyes and dropped jaw.

"What the fuck!? Shit! WOW, holy- they don't include that in the profile, in fact, there's nothing about your past anywhere." Rye splutters in disbelief, I just shrug as if I just told him what I had for dinner last night and not something a select few people know about me. If I'm gonna die, someone might as well know my story, my whole story, not just my legacy. "So, what happened then? I mean, no offense, but how come you're not, you know. How come you're not in the nut house still?" Rye questions cautiously,

"Katherine, learnt to act. She was a quiet little thing, quiet, but deadly. She was very good at observing. People, situations, emotions, you name it, she could read it like an open book. She observed those who they dubbed 'sane enough' to leave." I begin and do quotations signs as I say 'sane enough', then continue recounting what happened. Rye just sat silently, stunned both out of shear amazement and shock. "She became quite the mimic. She observed, learned, practiced, then performed. She learnt how to literally fake it till she made it. Sure enough, after so long learning and practicing, finally, she was let out. Put into foster care as she had no living relatives, her grandparents had all passed away during her time in the mental institute."

"So, you're still, insane? Not that I'm particularly surprised, actually, it explains a lot." Rye comments with an eyebrow raised,

"Perhaps, perhaps not, honestly, I can't tell anymore, I've spent so many years pretending. So much so that even I can't tell if what I feel is an act or real, I can't tell the difference anymore.  I feel like should feel a certain way in certain situations, so I put myself in that mood, But, deep down, I don't think I really feel it, I feel.., nothing.., I feel, numb..." I trail off and look into my empty glass. Maybe it's the alcohol's influence, or there's something about him that feel I can tell the truth.

I've got everyone else I know fooled. I lie every day, to everyone, even myself. I tell people I feel sympathy for their problems, I don't. I tell people I like them but wouldn't bat an eyelid if they were shot dead in front of me, even less if I was the one who pulled the trigger. This the first time in years that I've told the truth.

"So, if I was being tortured severely right on front of you right now?" Rye asks,

"You cocky bastard," I shake my cuffs again, "You kidnapped me, had me tortured and hunted me down like a prize stag, what do you think I'd do?" I ask rhetorically,

"Good point." Rye chuckles as I pour myself more scotch. As ridiculous as it sounds, alcohol has kept me slightly sane, sometimes it helps me relax, sometimes it helps me forget. Cliché I know, but hey, so is a damaged flawed person with an alcohol problem. "Let me guess, you'd either continue to drink, or get up and help?" He suggests,

"No, first, I'd tie he fucker who's taking my revenge for me, torture his ass, kill him then move onto you and do a better more thorough job." I correct thoughtfully as I pour myself more scotch,

"Why torture him, and gimme some o' that before you finish it without me." Rye questions and beckons me to hand over the scotch, or what's left of it,

"To give you a preview so you stew in your own fear and let the suspense of waiting mess with you." I answer and hand over the bottle of scotch.