A Braveheart’s Archenemy
In this whole wide world, there wasn’t a person I hated more than James Morgenstern.
He was the reason I was on the edge all the darn time, he was the reason I never slept without a weapon under my pillow.
I lived to kill that man and I was sure that if I were to die someday, it would all be because of him.
Every time I looked in the mirror, it reminded me of my vengeance, for which I was wholeheartedly thankful, nonetheless.
I liked being alert. James made me alert.
Hating him was like the quivering of my otherwise cold heart; it kept me alive.
The last time I ran into him, he was hidden in a closet, begging me for mercy. It was only a few months back… I had never seen him so scared, had I? I aimed my gun at him, relishing the sight of the old brat! I fired – once, twice, thrice… He laughed – blood gurgling out of his pitiful mouth – before convulsing to his end.
But this morning, I saw him again.
I saw him crouching behind a tree, his face covered in sweat, his forehead adorned with more wrinkles than he’d have liked.
I smiled, and aimed my gun at him and fired – he laughed, and died, once again.
Stepping back to look at my handiwork, I grinned.
I had defeated James Morgenstern yet again… my alias… my archenemy… my fear… me.
While it might look a bit too dramatic for common folks out there – I mean, how many people have a name for the embodiment of their fear – it was what I needed. James Morgenstern kept me alive.
It was all my life’s worth to keep defeating James Morgenstern.
I lived to defeat him.
Again and again.
A secret agent must always defeat his fear.