It begins with slow-noted acoustic strums which pause after a set rhythm, before starting up again the same way. Then the first verse comes in along with smooth violins, building up stronger with more powerful lyrics bit by bit. By the end of this first section, there are streams of climactic high notes by these violins before flowing into a fast emerging electric guitar as if running late, and the second verse is set off by the pound of a drum at their entrance. The acoustic and electric guitar, drums, violins and the man's voice sway their own way yet blend into the one song I haven't been able to keep off my iPod since the last Criminal Minds episode aired.

A certain pattern of quiet knuckle-taps on my door drag me back to the world. The world, where I sit up from the black leather couch on hardwood floors to my otherwise empty parents' home, to see the red-orange sky quickly turning purple and black just outside the large window to my right. There are no lights on in the house as I haven't gotten up all day, again, to notice day had passed at all. Bright blue light flashes waveringly from the TV in front of me, which I never turned off from the night before, either.

Rubbing my eyes and setting down the iPod, I finally stand and head to the door, opening it quietly and staring at the deliverer expectantly. He hands me a typical envelope with no return address or stamp and without a word or second glance, he walks down the black outside stairs and back to the quiet rich urban-suburban streets. Opening the letter, I find my next commission.

It doesn't take long to gather what I need for my job. Buttoning my red-collared shirt in the mirror, I stare at hazy, hazel eyes. Dark rings lay tiredly under them, and my wavy black Italian hair peeks just below my ear-length. A defined chiseled chin fits a young masculine face at nineteen, while a lean, one hundred and thirty pound frame at almost six-foot doesn't appear to account for a life of hard labor. By hard labor, I refer to the weight I bear on my shoulders. Then again, an adolescent fugitive, who dumped most schooling from a threat to join an underground and unnamed organization of commissionable hitmen just to spare his life, isn't what most of kids my age are known for doing, let alone having to bear it alone. It sounds more like that crap school-kids do for an English assignment as an interesting story to practice language use. But I don't quite find my life for what it sounds like, and I'd do anything to be the one writing this than the one playing it out.

With a cigarette between my teeth, my keys in one hand and the envelope in another, I head out into the rainy bleak night after reading my new target's description and his approximate whereabouts. There never is a reason for why these people need to die. The organization tells me to do it and as long as I do, I won't have it done to me. Granted it's not really a promise, but at least it eases some paranoia I've accumulated from all this. Kill or be killed. I stuff the envelope in my right pocket. In my left, I carry a backup pocketknife with the nickname of Satin engraved by whatever manufacturer. On my right side, attached to my black leather belt is a holster for the gun the unnamed organization gave me. That's all I ever need.

"Another day in this carnival of souls," I quietly hum with the verses in my head as I walk alone. "Another night settles in, as quickly as it goes." Glancing around, I see no one, so I keep humming. The real lyrics are in my head and mine alone tonight. "The memories are shadows, ink on the page. And I can't seem to find my way home."

Despite the sleek, shiny black Mercedes Benz convertible sitting right in the garage, waiting for me to set her purring with a stroke of the keys, I choose to walk tonight as a calm breeze sways the tree branches. Seeing in the dark is an asset I've grown accustomed to. Though I'm no nightwalker, I don't need the best sight to navigate an area I've lived in my whole life.

The description of the man I'm set to kill by dawn is very little. Listed are the basic, but few, distinct physical characteristics. The most I know is he is or has been a married man- the details are vague even there. Either way, I know who I'm after because of the address they had given me for where he lives, and I have frequently seen him around with his wife and two kids a couple years ago. Not recently though, which raises my curiosity on what's been going on with the family.

Family. Now there's a word I can’t stand.

Reason being that is probably due to the fact I've been trapped with that horrid organization since I was twelve, and offing my family was the first task. I selfishly, horribly selfishly, took their lives to spare my own. Only to be stupid enough to never allow myself to tear the family photo of us from my father's wallet, in which I even use today. And I remember that life so innocently well that I end up gagging at the mere glimpse of my past. That life. But what life is this?

Wet street pavement barely makes a sound beneath my feet as I stalk about the rich neighborhood, prowling for my set prey in the cover of peace, or blind ignorance. Either way, whatever their pathetic mindset is, citizens here, don't know that I am too. My hair gets a bit wet from the unsettling drizzle of a rain that hasn't really ceased since yesterday, but I would much prefer to be washed away by rain then the blood I shed.

Out of nowhere, the man I'm searching for makes his way out of a local drugstore, a small brown bag of what I recognize to be whiskey clenched in his tensed left hand as he makes his way to the car. My eyebrows knit and I squint to curiously see he isn't wearing his wedding ring. I come to my own conclusions but none of that personal junk matters.

I'd rather not put anyone else at stake for the sake of my commission, so I dart behind a nearby dumpster at the Subway parking lot, watching him anxiously fumble for the right key. I reach for the gun at my belt and slowly draw it out- watching, waiting, feeling for the right time, to end his time.

He suddenly drops his keys and cusses at himself before bending and picking them up. He really is a pitiful soul, and I bet he plans to drink himself to sleep when he gets home. In which, he won't.

"All the places I've been and things I've seen… A million stories that made up a million shattered dreams. The faces of people I'll never see again…"

The barrel of the small glock pistol clicks when I ready it and point, my eyes narrowing in focus at the poor oblivious man who won't know what hit him. My finger wraps around the trigger as I mumble, "Blackout," then pull it back, my arms snapping back toward me in recoil as the man goes down; a long and unmistakable sound rings my ears and echoes the entire area off every nearby building.

Now I don't have much time. I take a quick glance for outside cameras before running to the man and picking the wallet from his pocket, taking the green as he's stained in red. Then I'm gone, running as I stuff the bloodied bills into my tattered wallet, and the job is done.

"And I can't seem to find my way home."

Behind me ring ambulance sirens and police, searching for the man who did it. The man they call Blackout Domani, in which they have no idea that the Kynton Domani in that lonely emancipated house is exactly who they thought I was before my personal name was cleared by the organization's illicit file-tinkering.

The cigarette falls from my lips when I see an overworked Lydia picking up her kids late from some dance class run by a lovely Hispanic woman named Faith. The cigarette is put out fast as it plops into the puddle and I stare at them blankly, standing there quite rigid. But they don't seem to notice. Nobody notices anything.

"Yes, thank you again," Lydia nods and smiles as her hands hold that of her two children's. She turns her head and sees me and smiles politely. She has no idea who I am. But because of my work and her husband lying dead in the street three blocks away, I know much about her. So I give a nod and force a smile so polite it makes me want to puke. So much so, that I walk swiftly to the next corner and turn before breaking out into a full sprint back home.

I slam the door and hit my back against it once it's closed, shutting my eyes and gritting my teeth as I slide down to the floor.

"It's almost like your heaven's trying everything…"

My hands run through my hair and grasp at it, pulling at it as I scream to let it out. Not knowing what else to do, and not having much energy to burn off the guilt, I huff a shaken sigh when I’m out of breath and stand, counting every step to that stupid couch before plopping down numbly, shutting off the damn iPod I'd left here as the song on repeat played over and over while I was gone.

"...to break me...down."

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Citations: (lyrics)
"Far From Home" © Death Finger Five Punch