There are only two reasons why my father would be late for my usual study session-
1) He’s in a fix, and his job went slightly off.
2) He’s got too much work to do.
Since the first one rarely ever happens, I attribute his absence to the latter reason. Oh well.
I flipped open a text book, and began revising the key aspects of the World Wars. If his job had in fact gone wrong, he would be mad, and if he was mad, he would have no patients, and if he had no patients he’d probably throttle me for not knowing my work. I turned the page. On the top right corner was a small box of trivia. Apparently more than fifty thousand people died in the first word war alone. There were so many exclamation marks after the tiny inconsequential sentence, and the only thing I could think was “So what?” It never bothers me when people die, I couldn’t give a fig for a single person. That’s probably why I don’t care that James is a hit man. I mean, animals kill each other for territory, for food and mates. They kill when they feel even slightly threatened by a rival and they aren’t put into jail cells for doing so. Murders a way of life in the wild, an art, (if I may call it so), that only a few intelligent humans still know how to orchestrat. It is the art of the predator. James’s is simply the perfect predator, and one day I will be too.
I shut the book, and rocked the chair back and forth. I looked outside the window at the little children and their mothers, idiotically wasting time in the sand baskets, with those disgusting ignorant smile on their faces. A slight smile flickered across my own lips as I thought that one day, either of these disgusting little apes could become my prey.