THE LAST MISSION William J. Smith
He looked into the mirror. He didnt like what he saw. Although his body was strong and agile, and he was capable of great physical exertion, his youth was slipping away. He saw it in his face. He was fifty-two years old. His hair had turned gray; his eyes had developed deep crows feet wrinkles. His face was older. He thought to himself, if my face is older, what about my mind, is it older and wearing out too? Yes, his spirit was worn and his flame for life was dimming. The eternal optimism he had was gone. The optimism of youth, the lust, the hopes; the dreams had past. Too many years of mission, too many tense situations, too many altruistic obligations had taken its toll.
There comes a time in every mans life when introspection and analysis become dominant thoughts. Questions enter the mind. It happens to the butcher, the baker, and the candlestick maker. It happens to the doctor, the lawyer and the priest. For men their identity closely hinges on their careers. A mans self-image of his success or failure, worth or uselessness, has a complex intertwinement with career. It creates a labyrinth of emotions and thought emanating uneasy contemplation. To one reared in the Eastern mode of thought the internal turbulence may never manifest; but to one with Western roots, the evolution to this thought process is as natural as the sun exuding heat.
Darren Black had reached this unfamiliar stage of life. For him, it was a time of extreme feeling and thinking. There seemed to be little joy presently. It was like the peaks and valleys had been sandpapered down to a flat surface. It was like his nerve endings had been numbed but ignited simultaneously.
Darren Black could most accurately be described as an enigma. He was sympathetic and sensitive to the feelings of others. He was kind to children, warm to the aged, and loving to animals. He was appreciative of nature in the true sense of possessing a mindful awareness of beauty. He saw smelled and felt the wind, the water, the air, the plants and wildlife with the observational insight of a monk. He was capable of extraordinary compassion. What made Darren Black an enigma was his occupation. Darren Black was an Assassin. His occupation was far more complex than such a simple description. But, for an abbreviated definition of his lifes work, no word was more suitable.
If Darren Black was anything, he was honest with himself. Certainly his career was devoted to national interests. He had been secretly thanked; by Presidents, and national leaders for his contributions and accomplishments. Ironic, though in those instances of private congratulatory fanfare, he attended these low-key ceremonies in disguise. He could not let his name and his identity match. In most instances he remained nameless. His introspective honesty was causing him to question his own identity. It was lost, and he knew it. He was multiple personalities, but, not within a schizophrenic nature. Rather he was a rational conglomeration of dutiful characterizations. He was a rose garden and a rodent all in one veneer. He was loaded with brutal experience, but the nature of his brutality was filled with reason and compassion for a greater good. When he killed it was to save. He took life, to save life and, reduce misery. He worked like an exterminator extracting a bug. There was no joy to the work, only duty. Nevertheless, he was plagued, by an overwhelming feeling. He wanted to cease operating. However, there were so few with his expertise. His sense of duty boxed him in, and for the good of the masses he had to continue. Long ago he had come to terms with his loss of innocence. Life became very serious very soon. He had been robbed of a carefree youth. He was doomed to moments of happiness in a sea of serious obligations. A computer chip of experience was embedded in his mind, forever, irrevocably locked in his psyche. He would always be a victim of his past and a prisoner of his future. When he looked into the mirror, he felt it in his face.
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