روايات وقصص ضمن Blind Assassin By Margaret Atwood

Emerging from the trapdoor, Amber navigated the tangled paths among the weeds on the mountain behind The Millennium. Suddenly, she froze. Her breath hitched. Beams of white light shone from all directions, focusing on her. The cold, unyielding spotlights told her everything—she was surrounded, the target of an ambush. Amber's heart pounded in her chest. Cold sweat slicked her palms as her fingers clenched tightly around her dagger. The veins on the back of her hand throbbed with adrenaline. Six assassins in black emerged from the shadows, their flashlights cutting through the gloom like the eyes of hungry hyenas.

If I wanted to leave and see the outside world, nothing would hold me back. Carefully making my way to the little cabin in the forest, I wonder who Walter chose. It's definitely someone that would know everything about sex. As much as I was against this earlier, I can feel myself getting excited with each step I take. If the woman knows I'm blind and still wants to sleep with me, she's either a social climber or a hooker. You'd be surprised by how many women have pretended to like me just so they can be part of our family. Today, I don't care who they are or what they're after. As long they're willing to fuck, I'm cool with that.

Bandit was a cute guy; he was huge with a buzz cut, and with his dark Italian looks, he was every girl's dream man, but with the news I just got today and Aidan's maddening obsession over me, I was not willing to even entertain the idea. I made my way to the changing room, cursing myself for not following the back exit as I struggled to walk through the sea of gyrating people. I quickly changed and stepped in front of the mirror to do my smoky makeup before applying multiple layers of watermelon lipgloss. I paused to look at my eyes. It took me a while to get used to looking at them. I had segmental heterochromia; both eyes were green, but my left iris had a dusting of gold at the bottom.

As the realization dawned that she was under Satan's influence, a palpable sense of dread settled over the assembled assassins. The subsequent events unfolded in agonizing slow motion. The lady's movements seemed to defy time itself as she revealed the bomb strapped to her chest. The faint beeping of the device filled the chamber, creating a dissonant symphony of impending destruction. The assassins, caught in a paralyzing moment of disbelief, scrambled to react, but their efforts were futile.

Rhea pov. In the little candlelight, the disguised assassin's blade flashed, a silvery streak pointed directly at my throat. I barely avoided it, skidding across the chilly stone floor as my heart banged against my ribs. The deadly accuracy of my assailant was far more impressive than the blade I had snatched from under my pillow. I didn't have time to reflect or think. Only to relocate. “I will rip off your throat.” The assassin's hoarse voice intercepted the already bloody air.

A shadow slipped through the ruins like a whisper Moving fast. Moving unseen. But Lyla was waiting. And the moment the assassin’s blade sliced toward her throat She moved. Faster than even she had expected. Faster than the assassin could react. Her hand caught the blade, shadows curling around her like a living thing. The assassin’s eyes went wide. Lyla smiled slow, merciless. “You took too long.” And then She struck. The assassin’s body hit the ground, blood pooling at Lyla’s feet. She exhaled slowly, wiping the crimson from her fingers.

I stood in front of my mother, backing toward the bed step by step. Staring at the widening crack in the doorway, sweat covered my forehead as I felt completely helpless without any weapon. Then the door was violently forced open, with the bottom of the wardrobe making a terrible screeching sound like metal on train tracks. A pair of dirty boots stepped into the room. "Did you think blocking the door would save you? I don't have the patience for games." The man smiled crookedly, his disgusting gaze scanning the room. I froze in place, staring at the gleaming knife in his hand, its cold light reflecting off his filthy knuckles.

And I will not rest until I tear that illusion apart, limb by delicate limb. So no, I don’t want donor eyes. I don’t want scraps from well-meaning strangers. I want mine. The very ones that were ripped from me. The ones that watched my life unravel and were sold to feed another’s comfort. To get them, I have to finish what I started. And when I do, this darkness I’ve lived in won’t be a cage anymore. It’ll be my weapon. I reach my hand out toward the side of the bed, fingers searching in careful sweeps across the sheets, grazing the edge of the pillow. My nails click faintly against the wooden frame as I stretch farther, slow and deliberate. A blind woman’s ritual, one I’ve perfected.

"My mother loved poetry. She said the most beautiful truths were hidden between the lines." I didn't ask for the dagger this time. I used a sharp, polished letter opener from his desk, pricking the same, barely healed spot on my thumb. A fresh well of crimson bloomed. I pressed my thumb to the translucent page. Nothing happened for a moment. Then, as the blood soaked in, a different reaction occurred. Instead of raised lines, a faint, brownish script began to appear, bleeding through from the page beneath it. It was not a map. It was writing.

Then I saw it, a flicker of movement beyond the trees, a second presence, my heart stuttered. The assassin turned as if sensing it too, then he took off fast and quiet, silently vanishing into the undergrowth with impossible speed.I staggered forward, my vision blur, the blood loss making the world pulse in and out of focus and then just before darkness claimed me, I saw them. A familiar silhouette, half-hidden by trees. talland watching, moonlight caught the side profile of a face, my breath hitched. The figure turned and ran until the forest swallowed them whole I collapsed to the ground, the impact jarring enough to rip a sound from my throat. The cold seeped into my bones, the earth damp