The Story of Blood and Roses

The group of hooligans had been pushed inside a class again. Apparently, they had developed the fear of being killed after my little lesson. I had hoped that they would quieten down, but not to the extent, where the giggling girl at the back of the classroom would start crying whenever an instructed called her out. The others had been eager to help her, I had been happy to see that they were gaining a sense of camaraderie that many groups lacked. If they truly possessed the potential, they would turn out into a great team that could fluidly work around a target. It would be beautiful to watch.

I entered the class and locked the door behind me. They jumped when they heard the soft click of the lock and then stared in horror. I pulled out my gun from the back pocket of my jeans. They flinched away, ready to duck under the desk if I started firing again.

I smile to myself and placed it gently on the table. Slowly, and carefully, I dismantled the gun and separated all the portions. I let them soak in the vulnerable state of the lethal weapon. It was nothing when not assembled. I moved around their tables, pulling out the unloaded guns from the shelf under their desk and dismantled them all in front of their eyes.

After the task was done, I let them just stare at the abstractness of each part that built the beautiful ammunition. Like a canonical Gothic structure, I put the pieces back together slowly. I saw them follow my lead, eager to learn something new. When they were done, they stared in awe at the piece in their hands. I smiled, triumphant, and turned towards the blackboard and scribbled.

'Lesson Two: Lincoln said, "a house divided is a house fallen." Learn from your fears, use them to build your knowledge and gain experience. Combine the three and flourish. Nothing can stop you then, for fear, knowledge and experience are infinite. Balance is as close to immortality as you will get.'

.

I needed an access card.

As it turned out, despite my efforts to hack into the organization's server, I was unable to pull out Jasper's files. I realized that they had tightened up the security after Daisy's little stunt. The only way I could get into his file was if I could somehow figure out Jacob's personal identification code and password. If it was his fingerprints or the like, it would make the situation impossibly difficult. Knowing Jacob Hunt, that was exactly how he had gone about it.

Beauty.

Balance.

Healing.

Protector.

Mystical Knowledge.

Emperor.

Glory.

That was all I thought about.

.

Guns were drawn and targets annihilated. Tattered garments remained on the lifelike mannequins that Jake had acquired. We had been silently practicing for the past hour, without a break or even a word shared.

He was angry about something.

I had a plan in my mind.

Suddenly, he turned to me. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped. He turned back around, his jaw clenched. He shot through every target, making sure it hit the mark between the eyes, every time.

As he was leaving, I snuck up behind him. I pretended to clean my gun as he changed into fresh clothing. As he went out, he finally mustered up the courage to speak.

"I love you," he said. Without giving me a chance, he walked away.

I smiled, satisfied. I carefully picked up the gun he used and placed it inside the ziplock bag for later use.

.

It's a wonder what some regular powder and some scotch tape can do. Within moments, I had his fingerprints. I carefully placed it into the sensor monitor that he insisted on keeping with him at all times. That had been the first clue to figuring out his password. His identification had been pretty easy. It was his regular username.

While he was busy taking the longest shower in the history of civilization, I hacked into his system and downloaded all the top secret files of the organization.

I almost felt guilty for using the diamond ring he had so lovingly placed on my finger to get what I wanted.

My pen drive was tucked inside the pocket of my jeans by the time he returned. I gulped down the need to look through the files, immediately, and waited until I went back home.

That was the first day I let him touch me.

It was different.

He seemed almost reverent.

The way he touched my skin made me want to believe that somewhere... sometime in the future, I would be capable of appreciating the love the man felt for me.

His touch was nothing like his. It wasn't scorching; no, it was warm. It wasn't uncomfortable... it was guilty.

I wished that I had the strength to cry afterwards.

I felt sick to my stomach.

I had let my guilt take over me. I had let myself feel wanted.

That day, I hated myself almost as much as I hated Anthony Murray.