Page 40 of I Am the Messenger

I ask you:

What would you do if you were me? Tell me. Please tell me!

But you're far from this. Your fingers turn the strangeness of these pages that somehow connect my life to yours. Your eyes are safe. The story is just another few hundred pages of your mind. For me, it's here. It's now. I have to go through with this, considering the cost at every turn. Nothing will be the same. I'll kill this man and also die myself, inside. I want to scream. I want to scream out, asking why. The scattered stars shower down like icicles tonight, but nothing soothes me. Nothing allows me an escape. The figure in front of me collapses, and I stand above him, waiting.

Waiting.

Trying.

To reach a better answer than this.

God, the gun is so stiff in my hand. It's cold and warm and slippery and rigid, all at once. I tremble uncontrollably, knowing that if I do this, I will have to press the gun into the man's flesh or I'll miss. I'll have to bury it in him and watch as his human blood blankets him. I'll watch him die in a stream of unconscious violence, and even when I explain to myself that I'm doing the right thing, I still beg for an answer as to why it has to be me. Why not Marv, or Audrey, or Ritchie?

The Proclaimers thunder through my head.

Imagine it.

Imagine killing someone to the tune of two Scottish nerds wearing glasses and flattop haircuts. How will I ever listen to that song again? What will I do if it comes on the radio? I'll think of the night I murdered another man and stole his life with my own hands.

I shake and wait. Shake and wait.

He starts snoring. For hours.

First light seeps through the air, and when the sun comes up closer to the east, I decide it's time.

I wake him up with the gun. This time he responds immediately, and again I stand three meters behind him. He gets to his feet, attempts to turn around, but thinks again. I step closer and hold the gun behind his head, saying, "Now, I got chosen to do this to you. I've been watching what you do to your family, and now it's going to stop. Nod if you understand." He complies, slowly. "Do you realize you're going to die for what you've been doing?" No nod this time. I hit him again. "Well?" This time he nods.

The sun hits its head on the horizon, and I fasten my hand to the gun. My finger's on the trigger. Sweat slides down my face.

"Please," he pleads. He bends forward in a half breakdown. He feels like he'll die if he falls completely. A disturbing kind of sobbing takes hold of him. "I'm sorry, I'm so--I'll stop, I'll stop."

"Stop what?"

He hurries his words. "You know...."

"I want to hear you say it."

"I'll stop forcing her when I get--"

"Forcing?"

"Okay--raping."

"Better. Continue."

"I'll stop doing it, I promise."

"How in God's name can I rely on your word?"

"You can."

"That isn't the answer I'm looking for. You'd get naught for that in an essay," and I dig the gun in a little harder. "Answer the question!"

"Because if I do, you'll kill me."

"I'm killing you now!" I'm feverish again, coated in sweat and what I'm doing, struggling to believe it. "Put your hands on your head." He does it. "Walk closer to the edge." He does it. "Now how do you feel? Think before you answer. A lot depends on whether you're right or wrong."

"I feel like my wife does every night when I come home."