When I Die: “Shouldn’t all stories have happy endings. . .?”

By Zahra Waqar

Deacon kills for his father. Ebony steals for her enemy. When Deacon is sent to kill Ebony, they’re both longing for something to feel. Their interaction sparks a chain of hope, fear and even death. And just when they think things could really work, Deacon’s father finds out, and everything changes. Deacon and Ebony only wanted each other—but love had other plans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Jul 12, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665744676

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Copyright © 2023 Zahra Waqar.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4468-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-4467-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023909590

Archway Publishing rev. date: 06/28/2023

Contents

1. Deacon

2. Ebony

3. Deacon

4. Ebony

5. Deacon

6. Deacon

7. Ebony

8. Ebony

9. Deacon

10. Ebony

11. Deacon

12. Ebony

13. Deacon

14. Ebony

15. Deacon

16. Ebony Ellison

17. Ebony

18. Deacon

19. Ebony

20. Deacon

21. Ebony

22. Deacon

23. Ebony

24. Deacon

25. Ebony

26. Deacon

27. Ebony

28. Deacon

29. Ebony

30. Deacon

31. Ebony

32. Deacon

33. Ebony

34. Deacon

35. Ebony

36. Deacon

37. Ebony

38. Deacon

39. Ebony

40. Deacon

41. Ebony

42. Deacon

43. Ebony

44. Deacon

45. Ebony

46. Deacon

47. Ebony

48. Deacon

49. Deacon

50. Ebony

51. Deacon

52. Ebony

53. Ebony

54. Ebony

55. Ebony

56. Ebony

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

For my mom, who always pushed through and my

grandmother, who taught me to be kind.

1

Deacon

I’ve killed about nine-hundred and eighty-five people, but don’t worry. I’m not a serial killer.

I hear my father - no, I mean my boss - call me. A dark and grim, Son.

My dark curls shade my eyes as I jog toward him. Yes, boss, I respond, looking up at his even, neutral expression. I’m not allowed to call him ‘father’ when we’re talking about another assignment.

I have another assignment.

My gold eyes glisten at the opportunity to satisfy him. I’m listening.

My boss skims through the billboard hanging on his wall and I see his eyes leveling with a woman’s picture. He points to her. I want her heart in my hands tomorrow. His tone doesn’t change. He hands me a vanilla-colored file and I open it, sucking every word. In the courier printed papers, are the embedded words of her address, age, eye color, hair color, skin tone, and birth date.

I already know her death date.

I nod. No smiles are allowed.

You’ll have her heart by eight, I say, confidently.

Good, he says, studying my form. Remember the process I taught you.

I nod again in reassurance. Never forgot it.

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The rain splatters all over my black umbrella as I stand in front of the house. Nighttime in London is a magical moment. But today the streets are quiet. Gloomy. I look back at the file’s papers and then at the house’s address. This is the place. It’s a good thing I wore my slim-fit suit as I make my way through the window easily and close my umbrella, swiftly adjusting it in my pocket. My backpack is heavy with material as I land firmly on the tartan carpet. I straighten my clothes, snug out the hood attached to it and push a lock of curly hair away from view.

The woman I was sent to kill, lay in bed in a nightgown. It is so silent that I can hear her breathing shallowly.

I can jump on her bed and balance just enough to hold her throat. She’ll be in shock at first so I have to pin the parts of her body that can harm me. When she fails to protest and dies, I can cut out the heart, then take her body with me for burning.

My movements are quick and before time can process anything, my hands are on her throat, a cloth digging her mouth to keep her from screaming. Her eyes are wide and in panic. As I watch her struggle, I remember my lessons and press down on her throat - just like the boss said. It works. She’s on the floor, dead within seconds.

All my targets are like this. Easily killed. I used to have a spark in my eyes for a challenge. Hope that will make my boss proud.

Now they all die silently. Simply. Plainly. That hope is long gone. My boss will never be pleased, it doesn’t matter how many people I kill for him.

I wear a pair of sterile gloves and take out my dagger. Number two, carved into it. Number one belongs to the father.

I remember my first lesson.

I stood in front of a man tied to a chair, sobbing against the gag father shoved in his throat, the day I turned seven. I remember staring at him, pitying him, fear pulsing through my frozen nerves. Father was crouched behind me as I trembled with fear, his expanding chest pressing against my back every now and then. He reached out and placed the knife in my palm, wrapping my fingers around it. I gripped it tightly, biting my lip.

Gently, my son, he breathed against my ear. I eased my fingers, and some of my fear shriveled, despite the man’s terrified sobs.

Like this? I whispered.

That’s right. Then, you hold it out, just like this, he pressed the edge of the knife against the man’s throat, who fell silent, terror plastered on his face.

I stared deep into the man’s tearful eyes and slowly, mustering the strength in me, cut his throat.

He died, quickly and quietly, without another protest. I remember watching him die. Feeling dread and horror and guilt. But then, father turned me around, nodded, and kissed my forehead. Good job, son.

My eyes open and I’m holding the same knife.

Carefully, I slice her chest open.

The fabric of her dress rips and her flesh tears, exposing a large sheet of tissue. I ply out the meat and take out a pair of forceps, driving it into her ribcage. I hear bones snap but proceed to dig into her until I find the tip of my forceps poke at something much softer. I pluck it out. The smell is strong with blood and flesh but I don’t mind.

Her heart jerks out of her body. I use the forceps to put it into a static cold storage box. A small one. Just for the heart to stay alive. I pack up my things, cleanse her blood and meat, spread the bed sheets as they were, and clean the window for any marks. I turn back to toss the body over my shoulder. She’s heavy but I’m stronger. I hoist a leg up and slide into the window, leaving the house and into the dark and now wet, glistening with old raindrops, gloomy streets of London.

This is who I am. Eighteen-year-old Deacon Pierce the assassin. The one trained to kill since the day he learned to walk. The son of a killer who doesn’t allow emotions. The psychopath.

That kill was easy. Kind of boring actually. It’s never going to impress the boss. Hell, I don’t think anything will. I light up a cigarette, to ease away my thoughts, breathing in smoke, watching the tip of the smoker light up.

While walking back to my house, I can’t help but catch myself in the reflection of a puddle. I stare at it for a while.

I look like the grim reaper.

My eyes are shadowed due to the hoodie I wore with my suit, but my bright gold eyes shine in the moonlight. Soft curls peek out on my forehead. I look even scarier with the woman on my shoulder, her arms thrown helplessly on my back and her feet digging into my ribs. A psycho with my cigar too.

I’ve never felt pride in my work. Rather I feel hope that my father would be proud. A little whisper of approval. If he’s happy with what his son became - even if it hurts his son at times - then he might respect me, the way I respect him.

He might not take out a pair of pliers and break a finger - usually the pinky finger, since it’s the most sensitive and I can still kill without it. He might not dip my face in boiling water. He might not carve out another scar onto my forearm, like before.

I immediately feel my forearm tense involuntarily, as if I offended it. Old stitches stretch and feel like a piece of metal deeply etched in my skin drags, when I flex it. I worry sometimes, if I don’t kill, he’ll just… think I wasn’t worth any of it.

I quickly shake my head.

I am worth it.

I know I am.

I’m a perfect assassin.

A clean killer. Who leaves no trace. Who hasn’t been caught by the police for eighteen years.

I look up at the night sky, a deep matte blue, speckled with stars. Maybe one day, he’d nod and point out no flaws. Maybe one day, he’d say a tiny, good job, before taking the body.

I exhale a slow breath as the next thought enters my distant reverie.

Maybe he’d clasp me on the shoulder, smile, and say in the proudest tone he owns, good job, my son. You made me proud. All that cutting and burning and hitting was worth it.

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The boss waits for me in my room. My room isn’t that big. A bed and a dresser. I reach into my coat pocket and pull out the container, the organ floating in the pink-tinted water. He nods, but looks at his watch and says, you’re a minute late.

But—

Be prepared tomorrow, son. Here’s your assignment.

He takes the container and hands me another vanilla-colored file, and lifts the woman off my shoulder, tossing it onto his own, before descending into his room. I wait for his shape to disappear, before opening up the folder.

Ebony Ellison

Age: Eighteen

I pluck the cigar out from my lips after taking one more drag and drop it to the floor, crushing it under my heel. Partially angry, partially tired.

My father doesn’t eat or play with any of the body parts I fetch for him. Instead, he sells them to people at the Black Market. The Black Market is the only other place father travels. He’s rich but I’ve never seen him spend a penny. Every week he would leave me in my room for a few days, to do some bidding, returning with loads of well-earned money. When I asked him if I could tag along, he would say ‘One day, my son. One day.’ I only nod, unable to speak.

I sit down and take off the slim suit and hoodie, suddenly feeling hot in it while running sore fingers through my hair and breathing the damp air. I’ll make him proud one day. I know I will.

So yeah. I’ve killed about nine-hundred and eighty-six people. But I’m not a serial killer.

2

Ebony

I’ve stolen from about two-hundred and thirty-four people, but don’t worry. I’m not a criminal.

Move, for god’s sake. I intentionally bump into a man. I look at him with a mask of furious eyes. He is twice my size, a heavy set of flesh droops on his belly.

He smiles, all cheeky and kind. Sorry, my dear. He clasps me on the shoulder and begins to walk past me.

My hand slides into his pants’ pocket and pulls out a shiny leather wallet.

Yes! Just the right acute angle!

Oh my god. No. I should NOT be proud of this.

He sets his hat and continues off. I shove it into my pouch.

A woman walks past briskly. I don’t even bother bumping into her. Her strapless purse hangs shiftless in her parka pocket. I circle behind her and my hand gracefully slips it out. My head nearly bursts when I see her turn to me in confusion.

Oh my god, I was too quick. My angle was wrong. I didn’t use the right curve. Holy—

She smiles and gives a wave. Good morning. Her voice is so light and melodic my heart flutters.

I try ignoring her but end up waving back. I shouldn’t be drawing any attention to myself.

I nestle it in my pouch. My eyes dart here and there, hoping to spot someone else to snatch from. None. My hand finds my treasures and I open them up. The plump man’s wallet contains a hundred-dollar bill and his ID. Guilt pricks at my mind. He was such a nice man. I blink fast to capture the tears before they pour, and move on to the woman in the parka’s purse. It holds a strip of gum and a few twenty-dollar bills. Her credit card too.

I clench my fists so hard my knuckles bleed white. Goddammit. I just need to remember why I’m doing this. I sniff, my hands barely supporting the weight of my items.

Stolen items.

Shit. New thought Ebony.

I glance at Big Ben ticking away and squint to see the time. I should get home. I force my body to work and trudge to my apartment. My movements are jerky and odd. I think of the man. His innocent actions and kind demeanor. I think of the woman. Her smile and beautiful voice. My body halts.

NEW THOUGHT.

I look up and spot my apartment, as old as time with a dusty exterior and plain interior but I’m grateful I own it without stealing anything. Without causing pain to another soul. I clench their things and start towards the place. I pace to the elevator and press a finger to my floor. At least I can have a nice Brandy and forget about all this.

Another man follows.

I try pressing the button to close the door but the damn thing is too old. He waltzes in and pushes a different button. I face the other way as if he knows the sins I’ve so carelessly committed. We ride in silence for a while.

You alright ma’am? He’s got an accent. I hate how concerned it sounds. Gathering the last shreds of dignity in me, I turn.

I give a tight nod and swallow. Of course. My voice had to sound like a choking animal.

He leans in closer but doesn’t press on. I keep my eyes on the screen of the elevator, portraying the numbers. Three, four, and five.

Thank the lord. I glance at the man and he responds with a full-blown grin before I disappear into my room.

I don’t acknowledge the flower portraits or messy kitchen but my couch and my small Spaniel Mix dog, Bruce. He barks happily when he sees me, wagging his small tail and sticking his tongue out. Hey, Bruce baby.

He’s not a baby. My mom brought him when I was a year old, so we’re technically the same age, that being eighteen.