T h e . s t o r y t e l l e r - +


. i am nothing (rewrite) .




She stood then as they called out her name. With unsteady legs she grimaced as the clapping began, thunderous and uneven. The attention to her small person was unnecessay she thought. But the men in the crisp, black uniforms had a very different opinion in regard to this ceremony. The looked at her with artificial smiles and held out their hands for her to shake. She caught her reflection briefly through a spotless badge worn by the head of the department. A woman with light, auburn hair and pale brown eyes stared back. And when the last hand came up grasp her own, when she received the final fake grin, one of them whispered to her slowly.

“The Social Security are glad to have you Denise. Make us proud.”

“Yes...,” she muttered.

Now she was one of them, a soldier capable of killing indiscriminately for her people and her country, losing her identity at the same time.

I am nothing.

At least I am nothing to the crowds of people who gawk and cry as they see our troop march down endless streets. Demonstrating our power with the rifles leaning against our shoulders we are monotonous. Our faces frozen with the look of utter determination. No smiles and no smirks escape our stares. Just blank-like masks following a straight path, surrounded by people who can barely look at us. I could feel the fear we breathed into their being as we grazed past them, ebbing from them like the bright blood that spills from a simple scratch. Their eyes widen with horror as they wonder. Are they next or not? Hoping that it is someone else they wallow in their own self-pity. But I’m off my subject.

We are nothing.

To them we are nothing but that security that maintains order. Order and chaos. According to them we have no thoughts, no feelings. We are cruel and mindless. We merely follow orders, and to a point perhaps it is far better for own well-being. Emotions only break a man, leaving him as helpless as a newborn, dissuading him from the cause. It makes him weak and we; no, I have to be strong.

It is our life to be the slave of disorder; that is our pleasure, but it isn’t mine. Far from it actually yet unimportant.

We are the SS. Soldiers of fortune and war whose only goal is to search, capture, and destroy. Nothing more. The Velliats with their unsatiated desire for control command us to do their bidding. Despise them, fight them, ridicule them and we strike back ten-fold. No one stands up to the upper class for to do so would mean that one day we’d be knocking on the rebel’s door. Chances are it may be too late to even blink. But is this all that we do? I shouldn’t even say “we” but when you’ve been in this service as long as I have your vocabulary begins to change, and for one brief second you forget who you are. Mindless…

I glance briefly at the scribbled writing in my hand, the ink slowly disappearing everytime I close my fingers over my palm. I know who the man is, his name written so unceremoniously on my skin. He is a rebel like all the rest. A filthy Demagorn to say the least. Like rats they dwell in every dark crevice and corner waiting for the ebony night to fall upon the lower district of the city. They feed off their own despair, scrambling to find whatever was left of that humanity many have seemed to have lost in the last war. Many impede the Velliat cause and these outcasts, these rebels must be snuffed out. But tonight like every insueing night it becomes harder to face them. For the past month I’ve seemed to stop caring or maybe I’m caring too much.

“Captain Thurman, he is a threat to society.”

“I understand, sir.”

“There can be no mistakes. Blackthorn must be stopped and you can proceed any way you please. Just be sure you contain the situation. I’m trusting you with this Denise.”

“Yes, sir. Dead or alive.” May the Lord have mercy on his soul, if he has one.

I am nothing but a killer.

In sleek black pants and tank top I walk through busy streets lingering at every other club, listening to their maddening music. I mingle in and at the same time I don’t. I am not comfortable among the lower classes. I cannot see myself living every night at the clubs, the mad rush of people pushing and pulling up against me as they dance to the music. The intensity of a night gone crazy as the anxieties of the day disappear with the moon’s enshrouding light. The perfect hideout for those who go against the Velliats. A place where soldiers like me would never be, yet I am here. I breathe and hear them all around me. Trying to fit in as I spot my target. Attempting to concentrate only on him but distracted by everyone else.

The crowds seem to part as a little girl with bright, yellow pigtails crosses the street. A smile paints her face and everything suddenly seems to go by in slow motion. I stare at my target and then at the girl. See her running slowly towards him as his face brightens up. He catches her in his arms and I feel the cool, hard metal of my gun, gripping it from its hiding place behind my back. I hear my own heart pounding in my chest, as loud as stormy waves crashing up against jagged rocks, lethargic and uneven. He notices me and he knows. He can see it in my eyes as I point the gun at him. I seem to be living a dream. He holds his daughter close and I scream. A loud noise echo’s through the night.

I balance the gun in my hands as every movement I make returns to its normal speed. Staring at the ground my eyes move towards my target and I see yellow mixed with red. Both of them lying in death’s embrace. A perfect father and daughter except for one thing…..they are the enemy. I hear the crash of metal against stone as I fall to my knees.

I am nothing.


The following was previously seen on Carnaval and I thought it could stand on its own since it was the first post. It is also a different version, rewritten for the Les Libres Noir forum. For further adventures on Denise check out the 'procrastinator' forum. Copyright © 1999-2000 Yasmín E. Voglewede. All Rights Reserved