Writing: A Fairytale

Once upon a time there was a girl who didn't have much going on. She had acquaintances but no friends, hobbies but no passions and likes but no loves.

This continued on for more than a few years until the day the consulate building she worked in was taken over by terrorists. True to her overly neutral nature, even though her life could potentially be in danger, she felt nothing more than irritated about the disruption to her day. Her demeanour remained unruffled, right up until the point the terrorists shot the man beside her.

As his blood splattered across her body she could still feel the warmth of it. It trickled down between her fingers and she rubbed at it, almost mesmerised by it's silky smooth texture.

Thus, when the terrorists grabbed her blood splattered figure, intending to drag her in front of the cameras to emphasise their agenda to the world, without quite knowing what she was doing, she reached up and stabbed the one holding her through his eye with a biro, killing him instantly.

And then she laughed, a bright, happy carefree sound.

Of this you must take note - right now she is not mad, or frightened or hysterical. She is simply a girl who has just found out what it is she wants to do with her life.

Which turns out to be painting the walls red with other peoples blood.

After the screaming had mostly died down, helped by the fact that the SWAT team arrived before the girl had finished with the terrorists. The girl was pulled aside and left alone in a room.

A group of dark suited, reasonable gentlemen visited her in the room and after they left, the girl was no more.

For a while afterwards (remember, this was all being broadcast live to the world) many viewers commented on the girl who had distracted the terrorists long enough for the SWAT team to arrive and save them. They pitied her obvious insanity. 'Hero' was a word bandied around a lot.

The survivors themselves said nothing of her. It was what they had been instructed to do and anyway, to speak of that girl was to remember her. What child wants to remember the existence of the monster under the bed?

There is a certain branch of the government that is not spoken of. The jobs they do are not clean ones. Even now those hidden operatives speak in hushed tones of a certain member of their rank. Of a woman who knows no fear and delights in the spilling of anothers blood.

Remember boys and girls, not all callings in life are good, not all damsels should be saved.