Cruel life

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
this strory is a mix of love and karma and hate, it will take you to a new dimension

Submitted: October 13, 2018

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Submitted: October 13, 2018



CRUEL LIFE by Ayoub Izellalen

In south of England, on one of the fastest growing cities of the country, Oxford, as known as the "city of dreaming spires", internationally known for its university, its cultural side and movie industry, a city where the lights of love and hope never loses its shine. But the city was simply urban, tall buildings in an exact grid pattern. Ubiquitous skyscrapers were smudged by the smog-filled sky, no sunlight, no birds. Cars raced between red traffic lights, stubbornly flickering. Inside that municipality there was a billionaire entrepreneur, living the good life, his name was John Wick.

John was as gray-haired and shaggy-faced as an unshorn sheep, but if he was as meek, you would not know from the cords of muscle knotting his neck- and straining the shoulder seams of his shirt, tenuously buttoned across a bulging chest, he was a very careful guy, a perfectionist and an intelligent person; he made his fortune by buying and selling goods all over the kingdom. The John Wick online market was a very popular website that made millions a month; marketing was always John’s strongest point, he had a pleasure on studying downs and ups of currencies, and he, every morning, took his coffee while examining the stock market evolutions.


Emotions. The very thing that make us human. You can have happiness, pride, excitement, relief. Every emotion considered good. But what would you be if you didn't feel hurt, or pain, or despair? You can't have the good without the bad. There is no light without darkness. The trick is to balance them, so the bad doesn't seem so terrible, and you can truly appreciate the good.

 Mr. John, though, was in love, trustless. He thought that women only liked him for his fortune, that she will marry him then divorce him, and take his money. He have been heartbroken in the past: his parents divorced when he was 10, his mom died on his 15th birthday, and his poor dad couldn’t pay for his scholarship, neither his food. So, technically, Wick was raised in the streets. He started his career by selling what he finds on garbage to poor people.

Four jobs and no sleep. That's what it took to get him rich. Otherwise it was staying the way he is and sleeping on benches. Wick wasn't about to let that happen, he started to sell food, then books, then clothes, then building materials. On his 25th birthday, he finally raised, after years of hard working, his first million pound.

Afterwards he got into the market of buildings, and his most successful project, is his website. It’s a selling website, just like eBay or amazon, but for houses, buildings, materials and construction machines.

But after all, though he was poor, John was a man of culture; because art is part of our human soul. It is dreams emerging from a part of ourselves, a way to communicate with the deeper self of both the artist and others. The same piece invokes different emotions depending on the person, their mood, their time of life. Art is pictures; art is sculpture; art is the creative word; art is music. The billionaire visited museum openings, charity raisings and donates often to daycare centers



His birthday was the 14th of October. He was lonely, but didn’t care, because making others happy is what could make him happy. For him, saving the world was more a process of evolution than revolution, the changes done slowly with an implication of the virtuous cycle theory. Instead of sudden changes that could easily be undone he developed methods in every arena that produced a better, more ethical, more wholesome result with each cycle. So, for his 37th birthday, he organized an open party in an orphanage, where everyone was invited, he bought gifts to the kids and brought a clown for them, he felt so blessed.

The woman on the corner was dressed like any other urban Vancouverite. She was casual, but smartly dressed in jeans, a hipster jacket and a neck scarf. Her face was made up, but not overdone and her long curly brown hair was throwing on her back. Yet somehow Mac was drawn to watch her. There was something in the way she held herself, as if unsure of where her limbs should be in order to appear naturally placed. Whereas the average person just walked along, barely aware of their surroundings, on autopilot just as much as those who commuted by car- her eyes moved quickly over everything in front, to the sides and every few minutes behind also. In those brief moments she was looking his way. He walked up to her and introduced himself, it was love from the first sight, she was the girl of his dreams, they liked each other and talked for the next 2 hours till the party came to an end.

John collected all the courage he had left and asked her out. On his surprise, she agreed, he felt above the skies and started planning for the perfect day already. To the millionaire happiness was like a cloudless spring day; the kind of day when you don't notice the weather at all. The sky is blue, it isn't warm or cold and you've stopped noticing the delicate flowers that bloomed only a few weeks ago. It's perfect but quite untreasured until the rain comes. His childhood had always been happy, he’d just never acknowledged it, not to himself or anyone else. It was a house of discussion rather than argument; there had been chores and routine dinners;


It was an autumn day. Far enough from summer to have lost the heat and not close enough to winter to have that bite of cold. The leaves had begun to fall and rain was in the forecast. Never before had John noticed how time is so much like water; that it can pass slowly, a drop at a time, even freeze, or rush by in a blink. The clock says it is measured and constant, tick tock, part of an orderly world; the clock lies. The past two days had passed like thousands of camera frames per second shown one at a time. In this slow time-bubble the birdsong was louder, coldness was colder and colors were brighter. All the while his insides felt as if there was nothing there, nothing to need feeding, nothing to have need of anything at all, he called her to come and pick her up. Her response shocked him; Wick's face fell faster than a corpse in cement boots. In that instant his skin became greyed, his mouth hung with lips slightly parted and his eyes were as wide as they could stretch; he felt like if a thunder hit his head and electrified his whole body: .

Either way, he took her to the most expensive restaurant out there, ordered some red wine and asked the waiter to light up some candles for them, and then the server arrived with the woman's orange juice and the first course: two plates of ravioli. The little white parcels were wonderfully fresh, filled with wild mushrooms, and served with a salad of mixed greens and parmesan cheese. Alex tasted one. He had to admit that the food was as delicious as Mr. Wick had promised. He couldn’t hold it no more so he asked her:

-June, are you going back to Paris already?

-well yeah, my flight is on 3 days. She responded

His eyes shifted to the side again and became glazed with a glassy layer of tears. As he blinked, they dripped from his eyelids and slid down his cheeks. he bit his lip tightly in attempt to hide any sound that wanted to escape from his mouth;

His lower lip quivered as words slowly made their way out of his mouth. “Can you…” he began, yet what followed was engulfed in the tremors.

-can you stay a little bit more? You can fly back on my jet whenever you want

She smiled, her smile died faster than wisps of smoke dissipated after a candle flame has been snuffed out, and politely told him *no*.

They finished the date talking about each other’s life. Wick was flattered by hers, she’s an artist, particularly, a black and grey painter. He felt more and more on her love. He accompanied her back to her room, but she awkwardly refused staying in his place.



On her last night of staying, John took her on a tour around the city. On the back of his limo, he knew she didn’t love him back, but he couldn’t resist. He leaned in a little closer, their foreheads touching. Dear god, he couldn’t fight against the thoughts that were going through him. Her very smell was flooding his senses now... And they kissed slowly on the sound of the church bell announcing midnight.

-why won’t you stay with me my love? Said John

-I can’t, I’m married. Even though I really enjoy your company and like you very much, but my sick husband needs me on his side.

-But, why don’t you divorce him and come with me?

-Johnny, you desire me and want me, but he needs me, you see the difference, I’m sorry but I can’t

-Can I, at least, have your address or French number? So maybe we could meet one day. Asked Wick politely

She wrote those down on a paper, gave it to him, got out of the car, and headed to the airport while her scarf dances behind her on the flow of the wind. It was a heartbreaking goodbye. Leaving is killing his soul as sure as a dagger can stop a beating heart. It isn't easy to leave even when it's the only option available.



John couldn’t get over her. One day, by coincidence, he was reading an old book, and found a line that he, believed it was a sign, it was saying “the husband died sadly, the relation have come to an end, and the women became single once again”.

He rushed to a gang bar in a village. The bar is hundreds of conversations told in loud voices, all of them competing with the rock music that dominates the atmosphere. The crowd is strong, criminals from all over the country. John winds his way through the warm bodies, walked up straight to the bartender, put 100£ in front of him and said: “we need to talk in private”.

The guy accompanied Wick to a private room and asked him what the matter is.

-I need a guy for a mission outside the country.

-hmm, what kind of mission?

-a mission where cop shouldn’t know what happened.

The bartender looked up for a second, thought about it and said:

-wait, I think I have your man in here, I’ll bring him.

5 minutes later, a strong bald guy entered, the man was built like a wild animal, his chest muscles bulging and his biceps balls of strength. Even his short legs were swelling with muscle, and he directly said:

-my name is 12345, what you want?

-I need you to delete a target. As in first payment, I’ll give you 1500£ right now, and you’ll get another 2000£ for filling your objective without mistakes, I don’t want the cops to climb back to me, understood? And If you tried to steal from me, just know, that I’m very rich and I have enough money to find you and torture you.

-I’m down for the mission, and don’t worry mate, I want the other part of money so I won’t run away, give me the address and the target and I’ll call you back in 3 days.

The two men finished their deal; John gave him all the information, and got together on the place and time where to meet.



Back to his house, the criminal thought about how he will do it; He maintained a cool detachment to his targets. Mostly he preferred not to think of them, but when he did it was as if they were already dead - walking meat bags waiting to be dispatched to the butcher. He thought of them as meeting their destiny and he was merely the conduit. Everyone has to die sometime, and he considered it a good way to go. No illness, no drawn-out goodbyes. They were just happy and oblivious one second and gone the next. Simple. Convenient. Painless; He’ll probably be using his preferred revolver. He had customized it to suit his needs. The stock was laminated wood with water resistant adhesive, making it stronger and less likely to warp. The trigger mechanism had been taken apart and polished for a smoother release. Even the bullet he was using had been specially prepared. But he had carefully drilled a small hole in the head. The shock of air as the bullet hit its target would cause as much damage as the bullet itself. The rifle would reload itself as fast as he could fire it, but he would only need a single shot.

He still had the problem of passing the gun through police. But eventually, he found a solution. He detached his gun into pieces and cut a cube on an old bible, on that hole he put his gun pieces and glued all edges of the book so it won’t open up, then he put it inside an envelope and sent it to a hotel on the name of another guy, so that nothing will go back to him, he booked a flight to Paris Orly airport and put all his clothes on a travel bag to look like a tourist.

Once he got there, he took a cab directly to the hotel and asked them for the delivery on the name of Jordan, the hotel lobby is classy in the most unclassy way possible, the floor carpet is a decade too old and with an old fashioned pattern of large flowers interrupted by worn and thread-bare patches, the large windows should allow a lot of light through, yet the heavy drapes and city dirt on the panes leaves it dull to the point of depression .Right after he got the bible, he went to an abandoned house, where he opened the book and rearranged his gun, to not waste time, he went directly to the address that he had been giving.

He sneaked inside the house, the old house seemed to have collapsed inwardly on itself somewhat, like a loaf of bread taken out of the oven too soon. The roof sagged and the cedar shingles stuck up in places like wonky teeth. The windows had no glass in them now and they seemed not to be quite rectangular anymore, all the chambers were closed and light turned off, beside one. He knew that the man was there; he approached closely the door, put one foot inside and hoped in the room, the husband raised his head, and the last face he sows is the face of his assassinator.



The next day, 12345 went back to England, called John and told him to meet him where they agreed. 1 hour later, Wick walked straight to the criminal, with the money on a wallet.

-the job is done. Said the killer

-great, did you leave anything behind? Did you clean the room? Did anyone sow you?

-yeah, don’t worry mate. The target wasn’t breathing by 11 o’clock, but a woman was there, I don’t think she sow me.

John was shocked by hearing that, he quickly asked him:

-did she have a brown curly hair?


-was she cute, a bit tall and on her mid-30s?

-probably, she was a nice French piece though

Wick’s heartbeats fastened. The killer then added:

-but don’t worry, I shot her too.


The end

( inspired by descriptionary and the writer F.Forsyth )

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