The way some people I’ve met like to define the lowest point of their lives is pretty objective, I think: when they shake hands with someone they’ve never met before, and hopefully never will again.
No one’s ever recalled the face of the person–some say it was a little boy they bent down to shake hands with and whose hair they ruffled, others say a stern woman, and some make mention of a man who felt almost like a well-meaning grandfather.
It starts the same way for everyone–a handshake, and then they are offered something by this stranger.
It’s always something valuable, something that would change their life for the better; for Natalia it was 20 grand and for Dennis it was a service dog. Others could get offered something that would change the lives of their loved ones–the old Colonel’s daughter shook the hand, and got told her dear old father could get skyrocketed to the top of the list for a heart transplant at the best hospital in the state.
But in exchange, you have to do something for the stranger. Something bad.
Some years before we’d met, Martha shook the hand. She was told she could have three grand in her bank account before tomorrow morning, but that night, she would have to dig up an old lady from the grave she was buried in, shave her head, and leave her there. Normally, Martha wouldn’t have done it, but she’d quit her job and was late on her lease by a few months, and she needed the money.
It was there the next day.
Our neighbor, Rami, mentioned he’d won damn near a million–almost spent it on a house, and in a hushed voice, Martha had asked what he’d done for it. We’ve never had dinner since.
And you know, it’s really weird because I thought I was happy. I work at a software company for a pay of well over 100k per year, and Martha and I are married with a girl on the way. We’ve picked out a name already–Cecilia, after my mother.
But six days ago, I was on a run in the park while she was feeding the ducks, and a stranger stopped me to just ask me how my day was going, and then he shook my hand. I’d heard enough stories–I was just astonished that this was apparently the lowest point of my life, and he chuckled a bit when I said that.
“So what’s the deal?” I asked, antsy.
“Life,” he said. “I will give you life.”
“What? What kind of life? Whose?” For a brief moment, I thought it had something to do with little Cecilia, and was ready to do anything, but what he said next blindsided me.
“Yours,” he said. “I will give you more life–more time to live, if you will.”
So I’d just been handed a death sentence, apparently. My teeth were starting to chatter together. “So what…what do I do, in exchange?”
And now–I don’t remember what his face looked like completely. I don’t remember anything but his mouth widening into something worse than a smile. Horrifying.
“In a week’s time, a life,” he said. “Give me a human life in exchange.”
I should’ve run. I should’ve run. But I had a death knell ringing through my head, and I was scared. I didn’t run.
“That’s crazy,” I said. ”You want me to murder someone to live?”
He leaned closer to me, and I was getting the sense that I had pissed him off a little. Presumably, people didn’t protest during his exchanges, but I hoped none of them were offered the same thing. “Either you or someone else will die in a week,” he hissed. “Make your choice.”
I was going to protest further, but he stopped me. “If it’s a reason you’re looking for,” he whispered, “I’ll give you many. If it’s options, I’ll give you plenty.
You could try the cashier who sits in the corner of your favorite grocery store–he’s allergic to peanuts, and sometimes, he dreams about grabbing the pistol in the corner of his drawer and going to his old high school, blowing his art teacher’s brains out.
Or how about the girl that smiles at you sometimes on the bus on your way to work? She loves going for strolls at night–she’s been clean for a few months, but it’s only because she stopped dealing after mixing up things she wasn’t supposed to. She stays up at night because she doesn’t know how many people she’s caused to die. Spoiler alert–multiple.
Did you know your company’s got a couple people doing insider trading? Higher-ups, too, so if they’re caught you’re all pretty much laid off. The snitch-to-be works the floor under you, too. Mister Ramos–fun guy, but pretty bad at driving.
Helene has a thing against shellfish, and there are two or three with depression. Just make it look like a suicide. It’s not like people care too much about that nowadays. Or…any one of your neighbors, really. Most of them that are old enough to know what sex is know how your wife goes over next door to fuck someone else’s husband for…wow, two years a week ago.
Speaking of which, Cecilia’s a cute name. Is she really yours though? Could be Rami’s. And doesn’t Martha dearest sometimes get a little clumsy when she’s had too much to drink?
You just have to pick, Matthew,” he was practically breathing into my ear, vibrating with energy. “Pick one.”
I could barely walk as he left. Somehow I piled into my car with Martha in the passenger seat next to me. She was talking about something in her yoga class and I just…you ever have a moment when the rose-colored glasses fall off? This was the same woman I’d loved for years. I thought I knew everything about her; where her birthmarks were, her likes, her dislikes, what kind of pasta she wanted after reading a sad book. And she was off on the weekends having sex with Rami.
Of course, this didn’t make me want to kill her. I was absolutely enraged, but I couldn’t turn the knife on her. I couldn’t for anyone, really, but I’d heard about deals with the stranger gone wrong–the ones who refused or didn’t follow through ended up in the middle of the streets in the afternoon or taking a swan dive off a building.
But it was someone or me. Came down to if I valued myself enough to take someone else’s life. It’s been six days since then.
The CFO of my company’s being taken in for charges of embezzlement, fraud, the list goes on. Some of us will be let go.
Yesterday, I demanded a paternity test for Cecilia. We yelled. I threw things. She tried to hit me with the steel bat I played with back in college, called the police and then my mother, saying I tried to hit her. Nearly got arrested yesterday. I still might, and that evening I left the house.
Not a dollar bill with me.
Wandered around for a bit. Couldn’t make myself get on the bus.
Fuck if I know what’s happening anymore. I can’t really take it. It’s been a shitty fucking week–forty years of my life gone in the sum of some hours, and it’ll only get worse. The only way to fix it is to do what the stranger said–kill someone. Even now, I can’t bring myself to hurt her.
I don’t wanna kill random people, even ones that have dreams of shooting schools. And it’s really shitty to admit, but for a brief second, I considered killing the girl. Following her off the bus–people have died because of her.
But. Fuck. I can’t. I don’t want to kill someone. But I don’t want to die.
What the hell do I do?