Perception {Dreamnotfound}

1 | Please Forgive Me | 1

Hello! Welcome to Perception! I'm Owl, Aka Holly, Aka the author, if this is the first book of mine you've read. 💙
(I've written two Skephalo books, but this is my first Dreamnotfound)

Perception - the way in which something is regarded, understood, or interpreted.
^
Something to keep in mind...
Enjoy. Love ya <3 ~ Owl

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-??? POV-

The boy squirms beneath my grip, gasping for breath as I press my foot further into his stomach. He yells, strangled screams for people who aren't coming to save him. There's nobody for miles around, I planned this perfectly.

"Stop!" he screeches, pathetically launching halfhearted punches at me. That's the strange part, he won't fight back.

When I first ambushed him, he was willing to put up a strong fight. He had me worried to start with, especially when I first approached him and found out I was tasked with killing someone quite a bit bigger than me. But as soon as he punched me once, he stopped.

I'm not sure why, but he let his guard down. Maybe reality hit him too hard, the panic of a real fight getting to him in the heat of the moment.

Pathetic.

He could've easily taken me, and he knows it. We both do, which is why I was so desperate to catch him off guard. This little wooden shack was pretty perfect.

You'd have to be bold to set up camp in a less enclosed area, maybe so bold you'd be considered arrogant. But this boy doesn't radiate the narcissism I was expecting when I received his profile. I really did expect more from him.

Oh well, he's made my life easier.

The boy screams again, hair falling into his eyes. I force the tip of my blade in a little, digging a gash into the boy's stomach to stop him squirming. Some sense must wash over him, as his flailing limbs turn stationary.

"Better. Just calm down" I mutter, narrowing my eyes at my target. His eyes focus on my wrist, specifically the one in which I hold my blade. A little throwing knife I found not too far from here, and took precisely for this purpose.

I'm not trying to be a messy killer, I'd rather not be a killer at all. But that wasn't my choice to make, I just do what I have to do to survive. It's my life or his, and I've made my choice. Killing this boy is a small price to pay for my freedom.

Either way, I intended to get this over and done with as fast as possible. Dig the blade in and leave it there. A little throwing dagger isn't worth the effort of carrying around, so I wouldn't have to bother retrieving it from the dead body afterwards.

Part of me was scared I'd break under the pressure, crumble to the floor in a crying mess like I did last time I witnessed someone kill their target. I've seen people die to their hunters first hand, and not all were fast.

Some were messy, committed by the inexperienced who just got lucky. Others on the opposite end of the scale, experienced and stealthy. People who play their cards right, and people who fuck up under pressure.

Long distance and quick, up close and bloody. It's sad to say I've seen it all.

But this time, I'm the one committing the murder.

I'm convinced I've seen psychopaths, who've definitely killed people other than their target before. More for sport than freedom. I'm disgusted by them.

"Please! Please you're doing the wrong thing!" My target has tears in his eyes, shoving away the blade held dangerously close to his abdomen. Next strike could be lethal, and he knows it.