"Caged Assassin" by Patricia M. D´Angelo

Dearest Elsie,

I've been screaming your name for over an hour. Yelling, crying, demanding they tell me what happened to you. They won't listen. I'm so sorry, I can't make my mind think clearly right now.

My dearest, little baby girl, I don't have the words, and I have so much to tell you. I write this knowing you'll probably never get to read it. But, I have to try. All I see...

Tears are coursing down my cheeks and I can't seem to stop them. My mind replays that terrible scene over and over in my head.

The horror on your face, the screams, your cries for mommy. As darkness descended, they ripped you from my arms and as my fingers lost their pleading grasp, all I saw was your terror. How can I explain this to you? I'm a killer.

The words are not coming out as I wish them to sound... How foolish, as if the horror of my words could ever be hidden. This feels like poison in my mouth, but it's the truth. I've taken lives... Far too many times.

I'm trying to put my jumbled thoughts in order. How can you possibly fathom what I myself seem incapable of understanding. I know my apologies can never be enough. I can only hope you remember me with a bit of love in your heart.

I need to start at the beginning. It was the fifth or sixth grade before the curse first surfaced. For a curse it was, and a curse it is. The teacher, Mrs. Breegenor hated kids. She should never seen the inside of a classroom. The words that ring the clearest in my ears were words she often spewed with vicious regularity. "You're just stupid, plain stupid" Those words cut to the core of many a student. The day came she visited her venomous words on me, and such anger welled within me. My hatred burned. I could picture her heart. I could feel it's beat. Thumpa... Thumpa... ...Thumpa...... ...Thumpa.....................

I wanted it to stop. I wished she would die. As bizarre as this must seem to you, she grabbed her chest, fell over... and died. She died! Lord help me... she died!

I told no one, I was too ashamed and guilty. For years I attempted to convince myself that it was nothing more than a horrible coincidence. It had to be. I was innocent; my thoughts were no different than any other student's in that classroom. How could it be true? But the memory haunted. It hid at the back of my thoughts, often rearing its ugly head, condemning, mocking me. I could not be free of it. It would not let me go. Slowly, slowly it was strangling me... strangling my sanity.

I was twenty-two when I finally went to a psychiatrist. I desperately needed someone to tell me it was foolishness, that I was innocent. I would love nothing more than to tell you that my fears were washed clean, but instead...

You have no idea the relief I felt when I looked into Dr. Morgan's face. I could tell he thought my words irrational. How could I have even thought such silliness? When his secretary poked her head in, he simply said, "Use it."

I could picture her heart. I could feel its beat. Thumpa... Thumpa... ...Thumpa...... ...Thumpa.................

I SCREAMED! My chest heaved in wails of terror. His little test did not cleanse me of my fears; it confirmed them. Sedation was the only way to silence my terror.

I woke tied down in a padded room, to a sound of soothing voices. For days they kept me in and out of medicated bliss, step by step coaxing me back to reality. To this day, I'm not positive which government agency actually held me. It is secret; one they will tell you does not even exist. They praised my talent, telling me of all the good I could do in the world. I could rid society of terrorists, drug lords, all the crawling vermin that despoiled our earth. My gift could redeem itself.

I embarked on a new life. As an agent I traveled the world. A mere spectator lying in the outer shadows of the crowd, dispensing my justice, freeing the world of evil... I applauded my powers.

My little precious, I must confess... the day came when the notion that this ability was actually a blessing was irrevocably purged from my mind. My handler did not appear one morning; he had been replaced... fired. I got along so well with Thomas: I demanded to know why. I refused to work until I had an explanation. The new fellow admitted that Thomas used me. My last assignment had been a ruse... designed to kill a blackmailing mistress.

How many others? How could I know who truly deserved to die? What gave me the right to bestow life or death? I was at the mercy of my superiors. I allowed their conscious to become mine.

I left the agency that day. My new handler had a short-lived assignment... his last. He was just doing his job, but I must reluctantly admit... I pictured his heart, felt its beat... and I escaped. I was on the run for over a year before they tracked me and attempted their first capture. Two died in that endeavor, their hearts silenced.

Their second trap, just weeks later, did not end so well for me. Tranquilizer darts shot from a high-powered rifle ensured not only their safety, but equally their success.

When I woke this time the experience was not so pleasant. No soothing voices, no bed or furniture, just padded walls, floors, and a metal bucket for hygiene. I received no medication to take the edge off my mental tightrope. Twice a day, a small slit opened and a meal was quickly shoved into my cell, my prison of deprivation. They left me to my own thoughts. Silence can be maddening, especially for a killer like myself. Please understand, I couldn't take it. I couldn't be left to my own retrospection, the recrimination was far too great. I demanded they communicate with me. Better I had just gone mad, for the hell I created for myself was far worse.

Once again, I heard soothing words, piped in over the anonymity of an intercom. A voice tempting me to consider patriotic duty, the goodness of my action. But I would not be swayed. I would not be fooled. Yet... I was... when I received a namila folder with the picture of a middle aged man, I erroneously assumed I discovered a possible key to my freedom. A picture of my captor. Words expressed his need to give personal significance to his pleas. He wanted to put a face to his strongly held beliefs.

I concentrated on the picture, felt his essence until I could picture his heart, hear its beat. I would put the fear into them... Oh, what folly! I think that disembodied voice relished telling me of their ploy. It was a test, a trick. Locked away, I was useless to them, they needed to know if I could still serve a purpose. I killed another innocent. Merely a random picture of someone they considered dispensable. With that I ensured my reign of terror, a damning workload of manila folders flooded under my door... All to become my victims. Had I the strength to refuse, but I could not trade my parent's life for those they littered in front of me like discarded trash to be done away with. They warned me... though my method was much more efficient, a bullet to the head was just as effective. How could I pay that price... the price of my parents? I was at their mercy.

Lies, all lies. Designed merely to ensure my cooperation, that is until the day a benefactor came to my rescue. I have no idea who. I only know that one day, the sheaf of folders rammed under my door held an unofficial document. Pasted letters from magazines in all different styles and fonts declared, 'What they are doing is wrong. Without pictures, I don't know if you can visualise your parent's heart and hear their beats to know they are alive, but I'll save you the trouble. The agency had them killed last night. Your parents were demanding answers. They were proving a bothersome inconvenience, quite expendable. Now, you know they offer nothing but hollow threats.' Along with those words were pictures, dozens of pictures...all labeled. Food tray carrier... Sniper... Sniper... Outside guard... Director... dozens of names, all a means for my excape. This time the hated voice was met with threat of my own. One that had to be taken seriously as I pictured the snipers' hearts, heard the crescendo of their beats, and silenced them all.

Freedom was mine. Though I left dire warning, letting them know I held their lives in my hands, I took no chances. I lived a life on the lam, never staying long in one place, never using the same name. I knew I could not risk it.

But then, I met your father. Forgive me, because I knew I had no right... I should never have made myself vulnerable again. But in his arms there were times I could forget. I was innocent again. But my black moods and unwillingness to share my darkness finally drove him from my side. Do not blame him. I made it impossible. After he left, I learned I carried you, my precious daughter. I should have protected you, I should have given you to him... but I wanted to hold on to something, I wanted to feel love in my heart... and for that I condemned you. What words can beg forgiveness for such a horrendous and selfish deed?

I ride now, sealed in the back of a huge semi with little but a bucket shoved in the corner and cameras bolted to the ceiling to watch my every move. Nothing but that, and a piece of chalk. My little three-year old cherub, we were playing with sidewalk chalk in the drive, making senseless scribbles and swirls. You loved that so. When the dart hit, and blackness was washing over me, I hid it. This one piece of treasured chalk and now,the wall of a semi.

My chest heaves with wracking sobs and my hand trembles so badly I can barely write this. I leave this story for you, because I want you to know... to know how dearly I loved you.

Do not think this scrawled tale endangers you further. I did that the day I had you. I know these people too well. You are their bargaining chip, a threat that I cannot bear to challenge. But that is not the worst...they will raise you, watch you for any sign of the power, the curse... and then one day, test you. I can only pray you fail.

Now I must beg forgiveness for the gravest sin of all. Please understand the longer I live, the blacker my soul grows. I cannot bear the caged life that awaits me. My insides crawl out of myself. I tell you, I can do it no longer.

Please, please, my dearest Elsie... I beg forgiveness! For... I picture my heart. I can feel its beat...