Today’s post is another bit of flash fiction from The Young Writers Initiative’s Summer Camp, covering a similar theme with a slightly more optimistic mindset, if not conclusion. Be aware that death is covered here, as well as the presence of weaponry.
Do You Want To Die?
“Do you want to die?”
His words are astoundingly calm, considering their content. Death. Not something I would utter with that amount of composure, a brow devoid of any sweat and one still hand on a holstered sidearm, untrembling. I think the accent makes it worse–city folk aways seem so unnaturally cool and collected.
Do I want to die? You’d think it, with the amount of sneaking around I’ve been doing lately, carrying sensitive information but neglecting any form of weaponry. It’s stupid, really. Putting myself at risk because of aged instructions. Words, lost on old winds, probably half-way around the world by now.
We don’t use violence in this house. That was about the gist of it. Looking back, it probably only applied to when we were tiny children in a tiny house, brandishing brooms and towels. Not to the grown-up child who moved out and searched for better things, finding them in a shady job with a shady boss who had shadier friends. Dirt-digging, that’s what I call it. The childishness makes me feel better, somehow, as if it’s all a game. Games don’t ruin lives.
But he needs an answer. It’s in the way he keeps his gaze on me, steely and demanding yet silent. Even his breaths are controlled. Mine are shallow, excited, afraid. They fluctuate as adrenaline rushes around my body, screaming at me to run and hide, but, of course, I cannot. It’s in the security of the hand resting on the holster, the natural way it fits with the curved metal. I’d be dead in a second.
So I freeze. I keep every muscle locked tight in fear, and think. A good answer might get me out of this. He doesn’t want ‘no’, or a scream, or blubbering. He wants something thought-out and rational, and I can deliver. I know I can.
Do I want to die?
Well, what do I have to live for? A family who I send half my paycheck to, a boss with terrible breath and morals but generous bonuses, a roommate who has trouble acknowledging that I exist until rent-day? They all depend on me, in some sort of way. I can’t die–I need to live, for other people.
“Maybe I act like I have no regard for life.” True enough, and he acknowledges it with a nod, eyebrows raising a little. Is that respect, for me having some thoughtful response? I hope so. “Maybe I can be reckless–well, I have been reckless. I’ve been caught.” Another nod. I attempt to swallow down a lump of nerves in my throat and continue. “But my life has purpose. I provide for a family of good people. I try to make my boss see sense and do good, sometimes. I help my roommate out with my share of rent every month, and I– I smile at people, and love people, and thank people. I don’t want to die. I hope– I hope you can respect that.”
He doesn’t nod.
Oskar Leonard 