2 Meeting my Soulmate

I've heard people see their life flash through their eyes right before they die, I never believed it. I've come so close to death so many times and it never once happened, but it seems like I can't escape the scenes flying through my vision as I feel a knife tear into my heart.

My name is Azrael Ketsueki. If my name sounds weird that's because it should. My mother told me that my father picked out the name of his first boy before they even knew each other and she decided to stick with it in hopes of making him happy.

It should be mentioned that he was a German-Jew who is the most Aryan man I've ever seen, of course I've only ever seen him in photos but my point stands. He moved to America shortly after turning 18 and went on to open his own construction business. A hardworking and loving man is how he's always been described to me. He died before my mother even knew she was pregnant when the synagogue where he was at was blown up in a terrorist attack.

My mother is beautiful and kind, woman with stunning black hair which I inherited who gave me all the care any child could ask for. My parents had me before marriage so my grandparents on dad's side refused to give any support to my mother and even tried to kick her out of the house my dad and her lived in until they figured I existed.

When they figured out that that they had a grandchild they did everything they could to help her. They wanted her to move to Germany but they eventually came to us and along with the money we got from selling my father's business they raised me.

My childhood was as normal and happy as it could possibly be if you ask me. The only problem I had in my first 18 years of my life is my love life.

I always had a pension for crazy girls. I don't mean party girls, I mean actual psychos. I am a possessive and sadistic person by nature, though no one would ever be able to tell you by the way I act most of the time. This resulted in the only girls that stayed for long had problems of their own.

I learned to be good at manipulate them fairly early due to my not wanting them to flip out just because another woman looked at me or I at them. If I had to say anything about my current circumstances, I fucked up.

With my childhood passes, I see my short yet eventful adulthood. The last five years of my life where I toured the country all the while going to learning all kinds of martial arts in this melting pot of a country and using them in different places to earn money to learn another.

This got expensive very quickly despite my natural talent for fighting and immense knowledge on subjects that made me better at it. At first I would only beat people up, scare some asshole stalker who wouldn't leave a pretty girl alone.

I managed to get a bit of a reputation among a few groups for my freelancing. People started coming to me when something needed getting done. In all honesty it got a little out of hand.

I spent two years traveling around learning my art and kicking ass before I moved on to a different field. I had a low level mob boss in Boston ask me for a hit. I had people ask for it before but I always refused, not because it crossed any line for me but getting $50,000 for killing someone wasn't worth the trouble I could pick up from doing it.

This time was a bit different. I had started weapons training with different kinds of blades and firearms and the price of my lesson was getting higher by the week. I hadn't implemented anything I picked up and felt like I wasn't improving.

I picked up a single edged 10" blade and got out of my truck in front of their house, fully covered in black leather to keep any evidence and conceal myself in case of witnesses.

Waking the man up caused him quite the fright, my only reaction to in cold voice was, "Stand and fight for a chance to live. If you stay laying down all that is to come is a worthless death."

With that he jumped at me, I neatly sliced along his left arm with my blade in the same hand. As blood sprayed, I felt different.

I felt like I had never seen anything so beautiful, it painted the wall and left some on me. When the scent of it hit, I knew one thing, I'm in my element.

It was different, I roughed up some people really bad before, and left pools of blood behind and got excited but it's not the same.

I always knew they were going to live because EMTs were always on the way after. Now though, the air was different. I took in a deep breath and felt my blood boil, I exhaled and licked my lips. That's when I noticed, I could taste something, it took a few more hits to figure out but I know what it is.

It was death. The taste lingered in the air and was the sweetest, most delectable thing to ever touch my tongue. If I could it would be the only thing I would ever taste again.

While I was lost in thought, my target surely wasn't, he moved to the other side of the room and picked up and handgun he stashed away in a drawer. The slide slamming into place is what brought me back to reality.

When my vibrant blue eyes landed on what made the noise, I already knew I made a mistake. I burst full speed at the man not 10 feet from me who was raising his weapon towards my chest.

I slide on the ground towards him the moment I noticed his finger twitch on the trigger. I dodged the first shot. I was never so happy that I played baseball in my younger years and had plenty of experience with the motion and was good and popping up after my speed slowed.

As I was coming up I guided my knife through his stomach with a backwards grip. I could myself cutting though organs and leave from just hip bone. The pain slowed him but by no means did he stopped.

The pistol turned and he fired off six more rounds straight into my gut more than half of them came after I had already drove my knife into throat.

As the blood bathed me and my first contract was completed I picked up four rounds in my gut for the trouble.

As our blood mixed on the ground I took off jacket and awkwardly put it on backwards.

As I applied pressure to my wounds, I stumbled out with all of them still lodged in me and drove myself to an underground clinic who I worked with before when I'd end up with a knife in me to get patched up.

Those were the only bullet wounds I ever gained, but I got something else at that time with it, blood lust.

Sending people to their deaths was now something that I had to do. I could control myself of course, but I'd never allow myself to.

I got smarter after that and learned more tactics on assassination though I usually went with my own style. I knew how to enter and leave a place leaving it undisturbed already now I knew where people would hide their weapons and would take anything I didn't want them to have leaving a better tool for my purposes in its place.

Another year of my life passed like this, I began to use edged weapons masterfully. I had tried any and everything sharp. Daggers, swords, shurikens, if it had a point and could kill I took someone out with it. I didn't really like any of the swords the I used though, my only passable one was a wakizashi.

As time passed I picked up a callsign, MMR. Mixed-Martial Reaper. A little lame, sure, but I killed a lot of people to pick that title up and I am even a little proud of it.

I had 108 targets that year and everyone ended up in a different style each time. No had managed to hide from me and no one managed to escape. My true body count was over 300 when you include the guards and family members of the marks that I had to take down to do a proper job.

After 13 months of close quarters killing I was asked to do something different. My client wanted a diplomat ended on stage of a rally that they were holding.

When he called me for the job I knew immediately that he had no clue what he was doing. My style in personal and bloody, this requires a certain amount of privacy. In the end I took it up, politics never really interested me but I had to know something.

Does that succulent taste grace my lips when I deal it at a distance? If it does, is it the same taste or something equally unique?

With a mark in my sights and a Remington MSR in my hands and let fly a .300 Winchester for an 800 yard trip straight through the man's heart.

It didn't even pierce him before it hit me. The moment it did I knew I was on the mark. It was certainly different, if the previous taste was a finely aged wine than this was a straight shot of the greatest whisky to ever grace man with its presence.

Needless to say it was just as addictive. The taste that I craved more than any other and would go to such lengths to acquire.

My business expanded quickly, I had no real need for the money I was earning as just a fraction of it covered all my expenses but my Swiss Bank account was soon graced another few zeros. I also started going international with my work, there are less countries I haven't left a wake of blood in than those that I have.

In the remaining years I did near every job I was offered sometimes more than one a day. The morality of it nor the purpose matter, if you had someone needed dead I was always the first choice if you could take it.

I known throughout the world a menace and due to a few high-class targets a wanted man in every civilized society, however all good things come to an end.

"Haah~ you are by far the hardest man to kill that I have ever seen." A cold woman's voice brought me to attention.

As I checked out woman is going to be my end, many things passed through my head but mainly, -I've been killing for years, and I actually get done in by a woman who I've got a full foot and 100 pounds on.-

I gauge how long I have to live with this blade still stuck in my chest and the best way to kill my killer.

She steps back and pulls out a compact pistol, "Our organization has been hunting you for 9 months, don't get me wrong that's not that long for our hunts but the most anyone who didn't hide got away with is a couple of weeks at the best." She seemed to truly admire my work, "You killed 37 of our agents and never even bothered to do anything about it, you just left a note asking for a more experienced fighter. You are one crazy S.O.B., I'll give you that much for certain."

I let out a small chuckle at her evaluation, blood follows the sound, "Name?" I manage to speak out.

"Ah, well you're a bit special so I'll tell you my real name. Crystal. No last name, the organization raised me, I never really needed one." She tells me keeping her gun trained on me.

"What does it taste like?" I asked her. She furrows her brows in confusion and I explain, "My death, tell me what it tastes like."

My voice become more domineering at her silence, "What do you mean, you freak? Death doesn't have a taste." She says clearly bewildered at my strange demand.

"Of course it has a taste you dumb bitch, why else would would I have killed so many if it didn't, I certainly didn't need the money." I state with disdain in my voice.

Her eyes turn distant for only an instant as she turns speechless at my words. I don't let the opportunity waste I rush at her pulling a combat knife from my waist preparing to attack.

I sink it into her gut and twist it, I then used nearly all of my remaining strength to disembowel her as confusion and fear stain her face, "To waste such a feeling without even acknowledging it disgusts me, I won't allow such a thing to happen."

The life leaves her as I fall to my knees and one again feel it invade my lips more forcefully than ever. I don't allow myself to savor it as there is not enough time.

I pull the knife from my chest slide it along my own throat, doing such a thing is extremely painful and taxing but I have to do it in order to know what it's like, the taste of my own death.

If before I received a peck from this taste, now I am having a make out session. My eyes are closed as I follow along with the motion and sink into what is by far the greatest thing to ever contact me and take in every moment as my final second turns into an eternity.

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I pull away and open my eyes, what greets me is a void, which against logic, I notice last. The first thing I see is eyes the color of the richest blood set on a perfect face with a small chin and tiny nose with abyss black eyebrows followed by long flowing hair that appears to be softer than silk.

Her skin is more brilliant than a porcelain doll's, not a blemish in sight. Save for a scar that follows along her neck like a perfect choker with stitch marks showing every half inch. Far from distracting her beauty it only adds onto it in an attempt to somehow overcome the perfection already laid bear before me.

-She is mine- are the only words passing through my heads as I continue to observe her, I notice her modest breasts, flat stomach and curvaceous hips. All of this leads me to longs legs and the end of her dress at the middle of her calves. Her skins shows its' brilliance once again, I notice that she is barefooted but it doesn't matter. I've never liked feet nor did I dislike them, I just accepted that they were there and moved on but somehow even this is beautiful.

I hear a giggle, "Husband, I'm so happy you like my appearance but I'd love to hear your voice."