For Tale Thursday
He lit his fifth cigarette since ducking inside the housing unit this morning. For many, waiting endless hours with only your thoughts to keep you company was agony. In this age of instantaneous results and rampant attention deficit disorders that afflicted the masses, the benefits of silent hours where one learned of oneself, was now a thing that was purchased in the forms of self-help books or meditative classes or yoga. He smirked at the idiocy of it all. A thing that was free and yours alone - your inner thoughts, your mind - could now only be accessed through the help of another.
But not for him. He was patient and welcomed the silence, so much so that he did not own any media units - no television, no radio, no computer, nothing - that would distract him from his thoughts. He lived a monastic life with only books to keep his mind engaged. But he was also a successful chameleon, easily assimilating himself into the environments of his assignments. He could talk their talk and act as if he too lived by the material, by the instantaneous now and could lower himself to their intellectual levels - that being the most challenging part of his job - all in the name of capturing the most elusive.
He was the agent of choice for the most sensitive of undercover assignments. Professional criminals - many whose sharp wits successfully pulled off what they did without getting caught- could not, would never be able to, match his superiority in the intellectual arena. And thus, once he was given an assignment, those he reported to knew the job was as good as done. No, he was not bragging. No, he was far from arrogant. The simple answer to why this was so was because he was not one of them and didn't carry the emotional, mental and physical encumbrances that prevented them from ever being perfect beings. He was not human, not fully, anyway. He was born of a human mother and an alien, non-human father and early in life he learned he possessed skills that no other human ever possessed and he honed honed them in the privacy of his four bedroom walls.
He heard the metal door across the street screech open. She exited. He flicked the unfinished cigarette against the musty wall and even the odors of cigarette smoke and garbage could not hide her scent. Yes, she smelled like him. And he had finally found her. The one who afflicted his dreams and whose face he had been unable to discern in each slumbered spell was finally within his reach. His heart raced with excitement of finally meeting one of his own, the one whose hidden face had captured his heart and soul.
He exited the door and bumped into a female image of him. She appeared calm but he could smell her fear within. She was like him, yet not. She was even more beautiful than he had ever imagined, her body sending unwilling electrical currents into his. If only she knew that she did not need to fear him. He loved her and would die for her, if need be. But she sensed the evil part of him. Her fear screamed it. Yet everything he had done in his life was because of professional assignments or because it was something inside of him begging to be released, a dangerous side he could not contain for it was imprinted into his non-human DNA.
She began to retreat slowly, her breathing becoming more shallow as each second passed.
He reached out his hand to her, "Please, don't be afraid..." But the second he touched her, she vanished, leaving behind her scent of lilac. He closed his hand into a fist, trying hard to contain the anger that was surfacing.