The Black Rose

Wap. Wap. Wap.

A thunderous hammering woke me from my midday meditation (mostly me staring at a wall until I couldn’t take it anymore). I trudged to the door, ready to neutralize whoever was causing that insidious noise, but before I could reach, the silent door slid open. A tall, tanned, chiseled from granite, Amazonian goddess stepped in. Her long brown hair braided into a slick ponytail. She had fierce brown eyes, a sharp jawline, an angular nose that looked as if it had seen better days. She looked like a panther dressed in all black from head to toe. Her sharp eyes sized me up and down.

“My name is Nadine, and I will be your new handler,” she gruffed in a sultry Australian accent, no warmness

She handed me a file. “This is your new identity. Meet Alexandra Pierce.”

I opened the file and skimmed the passport, paperwork, and copious notes on my past life and story.

“You will study that until you know it by heart, but now, now we see what you can do,” Nadine grinned sinisterly.

Having already changed into my training attire, which consisted of a black dry-fit t-shirt, black jogger pants, and black tennis shoes, I placed the file on the round kitchen table and followed Nadine towards a section of the building I had yet to see. Keeping up with her brisk pace, we crossed the long corridor and halted in front of the last door on the left.

Her fingerprints allowing entry, the door revealed a smaller training area. My eyes scanned the room from left to right starting with a giant glass box that looked like it could be a prison cell out of a superhero movie. Next came the weights, mats, some similar contraptions as the larger training room, straps, weapons, everything one needed to become a badass.

“Starting now,” Nadine turned towards me, her piercing eyes locking with mine, “Alexandra, you will learn not only the art of combat, expert marksmanship, languages, seduction, manipulation, mind control, but you will become a shadow. You will learn how to blend into a crowd, to become invisible. So, shall we get started?”

“That wasn’t really a question, was it?” I joked, the new name still foreign to my ears.

She grinned her eyes glinting, “No, it wasn’t.”

And get started we did. From that moment, Nadine, who I now nicknamed the Tasmanian Devil, became my arch-nemesis. Every night when I lay awake in agony, I dreamt of slitting her throat, breaking her neck, gauging her eyes out, anything to seek revenge on her insatiable tenacity to make me squirm.

Nadine’s motto was to beat me to a pulp until I learned how not to get beaten to a pulp. While I was stronger, faster, and younger than her, she was deceptively quick and masterful. In the beginning, I tried to win with brute force, but with a clever twist of her body or flick of her wrist, she would pop me in the face with her long stick, or closed fist, or on the worst day, a metal object. My body would break, medical would patch me up, and I would do this over and over until it stuck.

Eventually, I had mastered the art of combat, fighting with sticks, fists, swords, knives, minds, bodies, legs, anything as long as it ensured success. As the days turned to weeks, my body became a well-oiled machine. My fat trimmed to muscle, my skin taut, my body lithe. If I didn’t have a god complex already, I sure had one now. I would often gaze at myself in the floor-length mirror of my bathroom for minutes on end. Trying desperately to pick a flaw, a weakness.

On top of my brutal combat training, I spent a vast majority of time fine-tuning my hacking and computer skills, under astute supervision of course. I learned languages, the intricate details of world governments, how to build a bomb, how to break into any lock, hot-wire a car, the art of disguise, any lucrative skill a lethal assassin would need for success.

After month six, I had made considerable progress.

“What torture is on the menu today?” I joked with Nadine as I strolled into the ever-familiar training room. She turned to me and smiled the usual grin that meant I wasn’t going to like what came next, an unfamiliar face came into view next to her. The stoic figure turned on his heels to face me. His wire-rimmed glasses matched his thick black mustache, beady snake-like eyes, and mysterious smile. Dressed in a black suit and crisp white shirt, he extended a hand.

“My name is Dr. Marlo.” I didn’t grasp it, I just stared at him quizzically.

“Nadine has recently updated me on your progress,” he continued flatly, accepting my rejection of a cordial introduction. “Very well then, it seems we can move to the second phase of your training. Would you follow me?”

I looked at Nadine skeptically, but she remained rigid. While Nadine and I spoke little during our six-month sabbatical in assassin land, I had gotten used to her tall, brooding presence.

Dr. Marlo led me to the glass box which I glared at constantly over the months wondering what the hell it was for. He allowed the screen to scan his fingers, and the door slid open. From outside of the room, it looked like a clear glass box, but inside, it was a nicely decorated office. The room held two large comfy chairs and a couch. There were plants scattered about on bookshelves, a large area rug, and a mock sense of sunshine.

“What is this?” I asked, looking around bemused.

“This, this is your mental training,” he motioned for me to sit on the couch. I obliged.

“Here is where I have watched you over the last six months, studied your strengths and weaknesses. Here is where I will tap into your mind, fine-tune your emotions, and teach you to control them.”

I gulped. This would be a new type of torture.

Once again, I was correct. I learned quickly that no “trainer or doctor,” here was my friend, they were merely a conduit for torture and pain. With the aid of contraptions, Dr. Marlo orchestrated an array of systematic torture that included freezing temperatures, water, and food deprivation, blaring music for days on end, physical manipulation, buried alive, drowned, but nothing compared to the mental torture.

One morning, Dr. Marlo had a priggish grin on his pompous face. While my insides screamed to run, to walk out of the room, my newly wired brain reveled in the challenges, no matter how severe. I sat in the all too familiar white metal chair, that reminded me of the ones at a dentist’s office, except this chair had thick black straps that were to be placed around my neck, arms, and legs. Dr. Marlo placed frigid circles on my temples and chest to monitor my vitals, I hoped.

“Today, Alexandra, will be a new kind of test.” He sang harmoniously as if he enjoyed every ounce of this. He flicked a syringe full of clear liquid and buried the needle into my vein. I could feel the liquid enter my body. My mind blurred almost as if it had been wiped clean.

With the flick of a button, the glass walls of this dungeon became real walls, walls that I recognized. Black and white photographs hung on the cream-colored walls, it was Annie’s house. I gulped, my initial reaction to close my eyes, to block myself from discerning the pain, but the circles of death sent a jolt to my brain. I seethed.

“Don’t block it out,” he reprimanded.

My eyes wide with fear and rage, I melted into the room. It seemed so real. My hand touched the wall, the black framed photos. I wandered the familiar hallway to Annie’s kitchen where the scent of blueberries and fresh baked bread emanated.

Annie, with her pale skin and shining long blonde hair, was baking with Jack. A searing sensation of rage overwhelmed me. That was supposed to be me, that used to be me. I watched as they laughed, playfully rubbing batter on their noses, lips, and arms. I touched the place where my heart used to be. This was the Annie I remembered, the Annie that I loved. She wasn’t sick, she wasn’t dying. A tear welled in my eyes as I watched their happiness, their joy. Jack never baked with her, that was me. I could feel the heat rising. I moved to Annie, waving my hand in front of her face, but she ignored me. She and Jack kissed their lips a foot from my face.

“What are you experiencing?” Dr. Marlo pressed.

I remained silent. I let the anger take hold. I knew what he wanted me to do, he wanted me to face my weaknesses, he wanted me to slay my demons and thanks to this miraculous cocktail in my veins, I wanted to. I glanced around the kitchen to the butcher’s block. I grabbed the largest knife. Turning, I strode over to them. I reached out to grab her arm, it seemed so real. Annie paused and turned. Her brows furrowed in confusion like she didn’t recognize me. “Annie, it’s me!” I breathed. Annie just stared confused. Jack wrapped his hands around her face, drawing her attention away from me. He kissed her nose, her forehead. The anger swelled.

I pushed myself between them, anything to break up their love, their joy. Annie and Jack fell slightly back, but dazed and confused as to what could’ve possibly separated them. Jack took two steps forward to reunite with Annie, they were like two insufferable love birds. I swiveled from Annie’s angelic face to Jack. His smug grin, flashes of him stagnant on the couch playing video games with his long-distance buddies while his wife rotted away in the bed upstairs.

The levee broke. I sent the knife straight through Jack’s forehead. All I could see was black. Annie whaled, screaming at me. “Murderer! Murderer!” Over and over again he voice felt like nails on a chalk board. I covered my ears in agony, Jack’s blood coating my face, but a jolt of electricity reminded me I couldn’t block it out. I cowered as Annie’s voice filled my skull, forcing its way to every orifice. “I never loved you! You stupid child!” She just wouldn’t stop. I clutched the knife handle, my knuckles white hot, hands trembling. My heart wailed against my ribcage to put the knife down but I had to make it stop.

“My name isn’t Dani,” I grit through strained teeth, forcing all the anger, the resentment, the jealousy I had at her. I let the handle go with practiced precision and watched as the knife sailed straight through her heart. Annie dropped to the floor on top of her dead husband.

My hands shook in the metal chair. A tear welled within my eyes as they bulged, gazing at the lifeless, bleeding bodies of Jack and Annie.

Annie was dead. I killed her. I was the monster. I had slain my demons by simultaneously becoming them. I learned to mold the pain, control it, to master the monster inside.