A story about choices, fate, and the pressure around them.
“Choose!” he growls.
“I don’t—I don’t—”
“Choose!” The man with the gun knocks me upside the head. The room swirls. The bright light above blinks.
I find a word, any word, and scream it. “Left!” The man with the gun’s lips curl back. “And I’m going to try my best to be great! I’m going to exercise more. And ask that—”
He shoots me. Point blank. Blood spills from a hole in my head, blinding me. I don’t feel the pain. I stopped feeling a lot of things a long time ago.
“Choose!” he yells, motioning with the gun.
His favorite word echoes in my ears. Choose. Choose. I don’t know how I got here. Or how long I’ve been here. I’m… just here. Stuck. Tied to a metal chair in a tiny concrete room with walls that always seem to be encroaching inward. Things such as fear and anxiety come and go. I get angry at the man with the gun. I sneer at him, and he shoots me somewhere. I wish I could be violent toward him, but for some reason, he’s the man with the gun and he makes me choose.
“Choose!”
“I’ll be an author,” I breathe out, my voice ragged. “… with lots of readers. Trillions… gazillions! Movie deals!”
BANG!
Blood leaks from a hole in my cheek. I feel the air pour through it. And I wonder if I’ll die soon. I’m riddled with bullets. I laugh to myself. HA! I should have died the other hundred times this bastard shot me!
“Choose!”
I grit my teeth, my tongue heavy and thick inside my mouth. “I’ll start book clubs. Teach writing. I’ll show kids the importance of storytelling. I’ll buy more kiwis from the grocery store! I’ll call my mom on Tuesday. I’ll ride my bike on Sunday. I’ll do everything right!”
The man with the gun sneers at me and places the steaming barrel into my mouth. CLICK! The gun goes off. I feel a draft of frigid air in the back of my throat. All I taste is iron. The man pulls the gun out. He wipes my saliva and blood off on his pant leg, then resumes his position of lording over me. I can’t tell if he’s proud. But he looks it as he grins down at me.
“Good,” he says, tapping me on the cheek. “Very good. You can rest.” The man with the gun bends toward me, his lips brushing against my ear, his voice stabbing at everything inside of me. “But I will be back. And you will continue choosing until the end of your life.”
He straightens. My head hangs toward the concrete floor. His boots are stained crimson with my blood. Then they step off. The man’s footsteps fade. I hear the door open. Close. I blink—jerk awake.
I shouldn’t sleep. Is that the right choice? Maybe I should. No. Yes.
The light dies, casting me in a blackness so deep I think I see things sent from Hell to drag me away. A part of me wishes they would. Another part of me knows they already did, and this is my eternal punishment.
I decide because I must. Because if I stop, I think the pain will get worse, even though I can’t feel it. I stay awake and agonize over my next choices in life. Because no matter what I choose, the man with the gun will shoot me anyway.
If you enjoyed this story, feel free to follow me. I’ll be posting new short fiction twice a month.
I’m also the author of a dystopian, sci-fi series, Anomaly Rising, beginning with No Man’s Heart.
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