How to Raise an Assassin

CHAPTER 28: I PULL THE TRIGGER

My seventh birthday was one I wished to forget but never could.

The family was excited, setting up the backyard with balloons beneath a heated tent. Caterers were delivering mounds of food and treats. An ice-rink was set up outside as well and I remember Lay struggling to stay on her two feet. I was going to show her how easy ice skating was when my parents called me over to have a talk with me.

Noa was tying a couple of balloons with the number seven on them when he heard them call my name. He looked at my parents and shook his head. Then he turned to me and forced a smile.

My parents led me into a training room and handed me a gun. I had been training for over a year to deal with the recoil and actually land a decent shot. Standing in front of me was a mannequin tied to a stake. It was lifeless and still. A bag was covering its head, and its entire body was covered in clothing made of potatoes sacks.

"All right honey," my mom bent down towards me. "We've been practicing very hard over the past year. Now, if you want your birthday cake and presents, you're going to have to land a single shot..."

My mother walked over towards the mannequin and dug her thumb into the center of its forehead. "Here."

I hesitated at first. Most of the time I shot targets made of wood or sheet metal. A target that resembled a human was a bit frightening to seven-year-old me.

That's when my father picked me up and held me from afar. "Za-Za, you have nothing to fear. There is no person under that hood. It's just a target that looks like a person."

"But..." I muttered. "I thought killing people was wrong. Ms. Jane in school says..."

My father placed me back down on the ground. His eyelids seemed to twitch at the mention of Ms. Jane's name. "Ms. Jane is misinformed. Humans kill all the time. Those chicken nuggets you had earlier were once an animal. That hamburger you had last week was made from a slaughtered cow."

"That's not the same daddy," I giggled. "Cows aren't human."

My father laughed. "They aren't, you're right. So then, what about roaches?"

"Eww, gross."

"And mosquitos?"

"Nasty bugs."

"Exactly. And if you see a mosquito in your room, what do you do?"

"I smack it with my shoe," I said while making the motion of whacking the blood-sucking demon from the air.

"And when you smack that mosquito, do you think about its life? Do you wonder if it's wrong to kill the mosquito?"

I rolled my eyes. "Come on daddy, that's not the same. Mosquitos are nasty bugs that steal your blood and make you itchy."

My father bent down on his knee, rested one hand on my shoulder and pointed at the mannequin with the other. "Well you see that thing over there? It's a human mosquito. If you don't get rid of it, it'll come for your blood."

I was shocked. "Really? A mosquito as big as a human? That's not true."

My father nodded. "Oh, but it is Za-Za. Human mosquitos are even worse than normal mosquitos. Normal mosquitos only come for your blood. Human mosquitos come for everything you have: all the hard work you've done, they just come and try to nibble away at your rewards, sucking whatever 'blood' they can get their hands on. Soon, they'll take everything, and you'll be left with nothing. Do you want that Za-Za? Do you want to lose everything to human mosquitos?"

"Of course not."

My father guided the pistol in my hand in the direction of the mannequin. "Then hit the target Za-Za."

He stepped back besides my mother. I looked back and my mother waved an encouraging hand at me. I trained my sights and pictured the face on the target board. The forehead was the bullseye. I wrapped my finger around the trigger, took in a deep breath, and pulled.

Bang!

The target hit its mark, and a dark liquid started to seep through the bag covering the head of the mannequin.

My mother went over to retrieve the bag. Meanwhile, I was curious what spilled inside the mannequin's head. It wasn't until the bag was off that I recoiled in disgust.

It was a person—a real person's head.

Tears started to coat my cheeks. I dropped the gun on the ground. I fell to my knees, my hand shaking so much I wanted to cut them off.

Then I looked at the guy whose life I had just ended. I tried convincing myself this wasn't real. He wasn't breathing. He wasn't moving. He wasn't speaking. He wasn't real. The blood was ketchup, that's all.

It wasn't until the body started to twitch that I wanted to vomit. My mother definitely didn't make it any easier on my stomach when she brought the soiled bag and shoved it right into my face.

"Sweetie," she rubbed my back. "I know this is tough, but I need you to look at this."

I shook my head and stuttered. "He...he..."

"Was real, I know honey," my mom said. "But I need you to be a strong girl. You're turning seven now, and you're a big girl now."

I gently raised my head and looked at the blood dripping from the bag onto the floor in front of me. I felt so anxious. I wanted to just run out of there and lock myself in a room.

"Honey listen to me. You do not need to fear this. You should only fear the flow of blood if it spills from you or that of your family."

My mother stood and helped me up. She tossed the bag at the foot of the murdered man. "Now, let's have some cake."