The fallen Angel chapter1

9th January, 1988. The night wasn’t good by astrological standards and to compound my biological mother’s misery, a flood had swept my native village leaving her stranded in the streets. She had just returned from her usual rounds at the night club having endured a night more miserable than the usual. Only three of her clients had turned up. She was in a foul mood and a delivery wasn’t exactly the thing she wanted on a stormy night. She cursed the baby that came out of her womb.
The pain of the delivery had numbed her mind and she craved for a smoke. Ruffling through dress she pulled out her last cigarette. She had lost a lot of blood and her last word while puffing away in glory was a simple “FUCK”.
So was I born, alone, not knowing who my father was, with my breath as my only companion.
Would I survive??I didn’t know.


.......She looked up at me. The blazing passion that lit up her eyes every time she saw me was missing today. They were vacant, perhaps unable to fully comprehend the betrayal that had befallen her. She clutched at my overcoat, her sharp nails piercing into the soft astrakhan of my clothes. She struggled for breath. As her life slowly left her, She asked, her voice almost a whisper, “Why, why?” The needle had done its work.

 I needed a drink. The pub nearby seemed good enough. I ordered a dirty martini. I took the first sip slowly. The drink felt good. I felt alive. I had the power to take lives, lives which were some GOD’s creation. I allowed a rare smile to cross my lips. I felt powerful. It was the hundredth life I had taken today. Killing felt nice....


The Man held up his arms in surrender. His strength had left him. He corked one of his eyes at the Glock in my hand while keeping the other on my hooded face. I pressed the trigger. He clutched his chest and dropped to his knees. He spit out some blood, coughed and then rolled over. As he clawed for the last pangs of hope, a tired gasp escaped his lips. “May I see your face, Sir?” He was dead.


Why do I kill?I do not kill for any particular purpose. I actually like killing, you see. It helps cleanse my troubled soul. It gives me a sense of purpose. You might ask, “Who are you?”  I am sorry I do not have an answer to this question. I mean I don’t know who I am or what I intend to be. You better ask the others. They might be able to tell you. They who whisper my name in their solitary confines. They say no is safe from me.  They call me the Knight of Death. They call me

                                  “THE FALLEN ANGEL”