Not My Own

Contributor: Robert Forehand

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The light blinds me. It always does.

I wait for the accompanying migraine to stop before I blink open my eyes.

Mattress. Pillow. A bed. I'm under the sheets.

I swing my unfamiliar legs out and to the floor.

Painted toenails touch the carpet fibers.

Shapely, shaved legs.

Wearing panties. Nothing else.

Breasts. I'm a woman this time.

I flex my thin fingers. Glossy, acrylic nails glint in the morning light slipping through the curtains. An evening dress lies crumpled on the floor.

I glance into the mirror upon the dresser. A beautiful stranger stares back at me. Lush, black hair. Captivating auburn eyes. She takes care of herself, this one. Not a bad looking body to wake up in.


A soft snore catches my attention.

A man lies next to me in bed. Sleeping.

Judging by his clothes lying scattered throughout the room, looks like these two had some personal relations last night.

I recognize who he is.

My next target.

Take in the scene.

Bed. Adjoining bathroom. Sink. Ice bucket. Landline phone. Desk. TV. Stock paintings on the wall. We're in a hotel room.

No weapons.

Sharp objects?

A pen?

No. I prefer to work with my hands.

Soft skin. No calluses. Prim and proper upkeep of the female variety. With these hands, I'm guessing this woman has no combat training. But that doesn't matter.

I do.

I slam my fist into the man's throat, closing his windpipe.

Most people try to choke their victims with their hands. It's far more effective to crush the esophagus in a single blow.

He wakes up in panicked confusion, unable to draw breath.

He stares at me with terrified eyes. Stares at the woman he bedded last night. His lover. Well, she's not here anymore. It's me. Your assassin.

He falls out of bed, attempting to find something, someone to help him. His balance, his foundation, fails.

A strike to the temple causes the entire building to crumble.

His shocked face buries itself into the carpet.

Blank eyes stare at nothing as his final breath is unable to leave his body.

I watch the man grow cold.

How many does this make now?

Hell if I know.

I can't even remember...

The woman in the mirror stares at me.

I wonder what her name is.

This process always leaves my mind scattered. Perhaps I've done this too many times. At least I remember my objective. For now.

I can only imagine the surprise and horror this woman will find when she wakes up. She'll tell the police that she blacked out. That she doesn't remember anything. And they won't believe her. They never do.

Though maybe she'll escape. Take her things, any evidence, run out the door. Try to forget what she doesn't remember. It doesn't matter. Not to me.

Time to go.

I can always tell by the migraine crescendo building up.

A thousand needles stabbing my eyes.

Sinuses ripping out of my skull with a sharp fishhook.

Tearing my consciousness out.

The device from another plane of existence forcing me to go somewhere else.

A new target.

I wonder who I'll kill next?

It doesn't matter.

The light blinds me. It always does.


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One Response to this post

  1. injaynesworld on August 22, 2014 at 6:08 PM

    Deliciously creepy!

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