روايات وقصص ضمن Blind Assassin By Margaret Atwood

Was there some sort of memo out there alerting humans of things they had no business knowing? “In a few seconds, you’ll be in crippling pain. The poison has already started working into your organs. They’ll shut down slowly, and mine will be the last face you see,” Ambrose grinned. He had big balls for a dead man. Without responding to the bullshit, he dug his claws into the bullet wound until he grasped the bit of silver. When he pulled it out and held it up to inspect it, Ambrose lost his cockiness. His terror returned as he stepped back, firing again and again.

With him here, she felt safe. Eva slowly blinked through the fog that clouded her mind, the metallic smell of blood thick in the air, mingling with the acrid scent of gunpowder. Her body, though trembling from exhaustion, remained stiff, her grip still tight on the assault rifle. She had just survived a massacre, one she had unleashed with ruthless efficiency. But now, something else caught her attention, forcing the beast inside her to recede.

She could hear the whispers, the lustful comments, the hungry gazes she couldn't see but felt burning into her skin. "Take off her blindfold!" a voice shouted from the small audience. It was a command, not a request, and the room fell silent for a moment. She felt the rough hands of the men as they fumbled with the cloth, and then, abruptly, the world exploded into blinding light. She blinked rapidly, her vision slowly adjusting to the harshness. Shapes became faces, and faces became monsters.

“Why stop? Keep going. Didn’t you say that in Jacksboro City, whoever you want alive lives, and whoever you wish dead dies? Come on! Hit me here.” I pointed to my head and looked at them with disdain. “Motherfucker! Just you wait! I’ll make sure you die a gruesome death!” Gabriel growled under his breath, pointing his baseball bat at me. “Why? The all-powerful Gabriel is afraid of something?” I raised my voice deliberately, making sure everyone heard me. Whispers began to ripple through the crowd. Gabriel’s face flushed with rage and humiliation. “You are courting death!” “Do you think I won’t touch you just because the armed police are passing by? They’re in the choppers. They can’t see you

My soul was flayed by a dull blade, the pain so deep I felt it might shatter me apart— That was supposed to be my beloved. My life. The agony left me barely able to stand. Even the crystal chandelier above began to sway violently. The scattered light and shadows trembled like my shattered hatred—quivering, unseen by anyone…

The brinks residue is worse. It sits under my skin like cold film. It drains heat where it shouldn’t. It makes my muscles heavy and slightly numb in places that should be sharp. Every few minutes my stomach turns for no reason at all. I swallow it down. I breathe through it. I refuse to give the night anything else. Elowen kills the lights without warning. The dark swallows the car whole. The tires whisper over packed dirt, then over stone, then over something softer—pine needles, wet soil, the kind of ground that doesn’t hold prints unless you want it to.

The twelve assassins didn't make a sound as they closed the circle. Their movements were terrifyingly smooth, like shadows cast by a flickering candle. The air around them didn't just feel cold; it felt empty. It was as if they were walking holes in the world, sucking the color and the heat out of everything they touched. My Blood-Gold fire, which had felt like a roaring sun only moments ago, began to sputter. The light on my skin dimmed from a vibrant, living flame to a dull, bruised orange.

A silver needle caught the overhead light, a thin, lethal sliver aimed at the base of her throat. "Vanessa said the bitch is a freak. A heartbeat isn't enough to call it. Put the silver in her brain." The killer leaned in. His breath stunk of cheap cigarettes and rot. Madison's eyes snapped open. The silver light in her pupils turned the room into a blur of motion. She surged up, her hand clamping onto the lead assassin's throat. Cartilage groaned. The sound of his windpipe collapsing under her grip echoed off the tile walls like a dry branch snapping.

He felt her every heartbeat, sensed the subtle shift in her mood as she navigated the city's treacherous underbelly. He felt the sharp, spike of her adrenaline as she faced the assassin in the alley. He saw the fight through her eyes, not as a detached observer, but as a participant. He felt the sickening crunch of bone under her foot, the cold, heavy weight of the dagger in her hand, the surge of fierce, untamed pride that followed. It was a strange, dizzying experience, to be in two places at once, to feel the cold mountain wind on his face while simultaneously smelling the stench of the city's back alleys.

When I died, there was a woman reeking of talcum powder straddling me. She was my third client that night—and my last. She told me her favorite sound was the crisp snap of breaking bones—more beautiful than any music. My right hand had just been twisted at a grotesque angle, accompanied by her satisfied sigh, until it broke clean through. The pain hit like a white-hot brand, searing through my nerves—then receded just as fast, like a tide pulling back. All that was left was a numb, bone-deep cold. I could feel it clearly—life draining out of my ravaged body.