Prompted to write

Since I’ve been having troubles coming up with blog subjects lately, I went to Pinterest in search of writing prompts to get the creative juices flowing. This prompt sounded good, so I’m going to give y’all a little story to go along with it (very raw, very un-edited). Enjoy!

(prompt courtesy of Promptarium )


Damnit. Damnit, damnit, damnit.

I am so fucked.

Let me rewind a bit here. It started a few years ago, when I made the mistake of agreeing to participate in this funky top-secret experiment. Yeah, that old cliche. Anyway, basically it goes like this: I can know everything you know. Everything. Down to the last thought…and I mean literally the last thought. See the thing is, when the government was trying to develop some super-soldier-type people they kind of screwed up. Instead of creating telepaths, they created me–some kind of murderous psychic leech that sucks the memories and knowledge out of people.

Why murderous, you ask? Well, it’s not like I particularly want to kill people. It’s just kind of how the whole memory-thing works. I can’t just touch your forehead and know the secrets of the universe; that would be too easy. No, I have to get up close and personal–really up close and personal.

I have to kill you. With my bare hands.

Figuring that one out was fun. I didn’t have really any reason to think that murder was the main part of the whole super-spy memory-stealer package. Who just goes around killing people, anyway? Not me–at least not until recently.

Wait, wait, let me explain. The first one wasn’t my fault. Not really. It ended up being a freak accident, the result of a burglary gone horribly wrong. This nutjob decided my house would make the perfect place to ransack. His main error was not waiting until I was gone. He just waited until I was asleep, which would’ve been great and all, but he thought he’d be cute and wake me up by pinning me down, trying to suffocate me.

Obviously I wasn’t having any of that. No, I fought back. It was self-defense, I tell you. He had his hands around my throat, and survival instinct took over; the funny thing is, I don’t have my own memory of beating the ever-living crap out of him. I guess I kind of blacked out. Instead, I have his memories of getting the ever-living crap beat out of him. I can feel my fists slamming into his head, feel the blood running from his nose after I broke it. Guess the super-soldier experiment worked in that sense; I am definitely stronger since then.

The memories hit me like a freight train.

Did you know that, whether you’re consciously aware of it or not, you remember everything that’s ever happened to you down to when you were born? Yeah. Seriously. I know what it feels like to be born now. It’s weird. And gross. Anyway, this guy had some majorly twisted memories. He was on the fast track to serial murder. Hell, if it hadn’t been for that experiment I would probably have been his first victim. When I think back on it, sometimes I wonder if I would have been far better off as a faceless name, a statistic.

Earl James Winston, Junior, was a twenty-four-year-old bachelor with some messed-up life philosophies. He thought he should be entitled to whatever he wanted, and anyone who denied him those wants found dead animals in their mailboxes or creepy notes under their doors. Dude was psychotic.

His memories weren’t the worst, though. Once the government caught wind of what I could do–and don’t ask me how they knew, because I sure as hell didn’t tell anyone–that was pretty much the end of my status as a free citizen. I became property. A tool.

An assassin.

Yep. That has been my life the last few years: I get sent out on crazy hits that usually result in me knowing shit I have no business knowing.

Like this last dude. He had some serious secrets. World-War-Three level secrets. Espionage on a global scale. Now that he’s dead, the heat’s on me. I guess my handlers knew what he knew, or at least knew that he knew some deep shit, because almost the second I strangled the life out of him I was a target. Big ol’ bulls-eye on my back. Ever since then I’ve been on the run. There’s not much time left for me; as Dead Dude knew, the higher-ups have decided that I’m a liability. A risk. A threat, even.

The strike team that’s after me knows where I am. Dead Dude was fully aware of that. He’d been one of the successful experiments. He had been able to read thoughts…and he wasn’t the only success. At least three more telepathic freaks are after me, accompanied by both military personnel and mercenary thugs. Thanks to Dead Dude’s knowledge I’ve been able to keep a step or two ahead, but only just. They’re really close now. It’s a matter of hours for me, maybe minutes. Regrets are piling up, both mine and my victims’. I kinda wish I had gone to college, gotten a good job…then I wouldn’t have needed the money offered by the experimental program. I could have lived my life blissfully unaware.

Shit. They’re here. I can hear the SUVs pulling up outside. Time to man up, so to speak. I’ve got to get this knowledge out of my head and out in public before they bust the door down. Or snipe me; I’m pretty sure they’ve got some sharpshooters with them.

Sorry for starting World War Three. I didn’t mean to, but I had no choice.

All I wanted was a little extra cash to get me through to the next payday. I didn’t know it would lead to this. I didn’t know what I know now.

So here’s my story: It was a dark and stormy night in Moscow. Three world leaders were huddled together, plotting and planning. They forgot about the guards. They forgot he was standing just a few feet away, listening to everything they said…


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