Note - This is a free-style writing. Grammar and spelling may not be up to par, since I’m trying to get in the habit of writing again.
In addition, none of these events are factually correct. This is just a fictional story that somewhat deals with a war overseas. None of these characters are real and none of these events are real either. I’ve had to change the names of locations, so this is an entirely fake world. I’ll be making it up as it goes. :)
It was plastered on every channel, every news station, every Internet blog, and every newspaper. The Death of The Negotiator. It was in big, bold words across the globe. Everyone was talking about it.
Shot dead.
By who?
Who could’ve killed him?
Why did they kill him?
These questions and more spiraled nonstop inside my head as I couldn’t figure out why anyone would kill him. I felt his death harder than anyone could ever know, than anyone could ever imagine.
How could this happen?
He was a peaceful and kind, loving man. Not an evil thought crossed his mind, his heart, nor his lips. He was a humanitarian through and through.
When I heard the news that morning, I collapsed to my feet and laid plastered on the floor, helplessly––I was frozen and emotionless for several hours, trying to process it all, trying to piece together what actually happened that day.
“The Negotiator, Ihor Victor Kozak, was shot earlier today. He was later hospitalized, but he died on the way there in an unmarked car,” said the female reporter on the television.
Father... I thought as tears rolled down my face.
My hands were shaking constantly; my body shook with such anger and sadness that I couldn’t bear the pain anymore. I couldn’t explain this feeling of regret. No one would know how I truly felt about my father. Now that he was gone, I was beside myself in despair. An emptiness filled the room.
I didn’t have anyone to turn to nor anywhere else that I could go to in my time of need. All my living relatives wanted nothing to do with me, because I was a prodigy, a pianist, who didn’t have nothing else to live for.
Why did he leave me? Did he know he was going to die? Was it the Dussians? Did they kill my father, because he wanted peace? Does this mean we’re at war? I wondered, thinking aloud.
All my musical note sheets were scattered across the wooden floorboards. My room was as messy as I was––a complete disaster, which mirrored my actual mood and surroundings.
Where can I go? Without father, I have nowhere to go.
As I wiped the tears from my face, I started to question if my life would soon be on the line. Would the Crimson Syndicate come for me next? I was the next of kin, right? But I didn’t know any top secrets dealing with the government and I didn’t have any important documents on hand. I had very little to do with my father’s work. He was so consumed with his job and his career, there was little room for me to know the inner workings of his political projects and what he actually did at board meetings and press conferences.
Sometimes, I’d see him on the news talking about what he loved to do. He wanted peace and wanted to find a middle ground for both sides, that much is true. He was never for war. My father didn’t want to see anymore bloodshed and violence. He saw the real horrors of a war in his childhood and never wanted anyone else to go through what he went through.
So, why did they kill him? Did he know too much? Did someone not want him to bring peace between the two nations?
I struggled to lift myself off the ground, off my music sheets, but I barely had enough energy to even stand. My feet were trembling as I tried to make it across my room; I was holding myself up against the wall so I could balance myself upright.
Sweat dripped from my face as if I was having a severe fever. I coughed and vomited on the floor and on my new shoes. My vision was getting hazy and I needed to reach the bathroom, before I passed out again in a cold sweat.
As soon as I got to the bathroom door, I pushed it wide open and made my way towards the tub. I literally fell head first and my body just dove right in. I wouldn’t wake up until the next day, dripping wet from the shower, which I had turned on by accident. My clothes were completely soaked from head to toe, even my shoes were drenched as if I had been submerged in water.
There was nothing else I could do about my father’s death. I wouldn’t be able to see his body nor be able to have a funeral in his honor. Going outside the Kingdom of Western Banemark was basically a death sentence for me. I’d have to make my plans of escape and head to the Democratic Republic of Neue Sablic in order to escape the chaos that would soon engulf me like a raging inferno.
It was only a matter of time until the bombs started falling out of the sky...
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