THE  27Th  EDITIOn

There was a thing that needed to die. It was a disruption to the natural order that had to be disposed of. Those who knew it called it by name and gave it form. A female, late 50’s, with a silver tongue made to enslave the thoughts of others. Just a whisper in someone’s ear was enough to have them crawling at the feet of the thing. It didn’t live the life of a human. The Don saw no desire to give such a sickening anomaly form. Death was the only thing he would provide to that which deserved nothing.

    It was taken care of swiftly with a brisk shove to the back and a topple over the bridge, and The Don kept walking. It was raining that day. People’s wandering eyes were hidden behind umbrellas and focused on their feet. His timing was perfect, knowing at that moment no one would be looking. The splash wasn’t heard over the pattering rain, but three sets of eyes had seen him. The Don saw and felt their stares as the body was pushed over the edge. It shouldn’t have been possible with his foresight, but it wasn’t an impossibility. Something would need to be done.

    The first person was a woman, 31, brown hair, green eyes, extremely slim build, tall, pale skin, and named Jean. A nude model. She found that the only thing she was good at was standing still. For hours she could hold any position, in any jumbled contortion. She modeled consistently at the nearby art schools, over the weekends at carnivals and fairs, and made pennies as a silver painted statue at the most popular tourist spots whenever she had gaps in her open schedule. Her life was paced in the far right lane and money made paycheck to paycheck. Her life was busy and her slow pace made it seem like even the everyday was at a standstill.

    The second was a private detective, 47, named Caesar–with a family that had abandoned him and an empty wallet. He had a tough exterior and gruff voice yet spoke softly and with care, watching his words so as not to step on any toes. The detective got decent work but the problem was that he had bills to pay. He went to therapy four times a week and had eight pill bottles in his medical cabinet that he took from twice a day. Small blue flames floated around him and whispered to him the words of people who had just died. Most were in languages he didn’t understand, always overlapping in tandem with one another. This was all in his head, of course. Every therapist and doctor he went to affirmed to him it was all in his head. His mind was playing games with him, and he needed to talk to someone about it and take his medicine or else he would lose himself. That didn’t mean he didn’t hear the voices or see the blue flames, but he had the solace that he was at least trying to make them disappear.

    The third person was a simple salaryman named James Smith, age 35. He had no family yet, but planned for a wife and two kids in the suburbs. His job kept him busy during the weekdays and free over the weekends. He was average. The incredible amount of averageness he held made it so that he was never bad at anything, but never the best either. Seeing someone be killed should’ve been a shock to James Smith’s daily life, but the fact was that surrounding his average life not-so-average things happened on a daily basis. For most, odd occurings and the supernatural happened in one's peripheral vision—but with James Smith it was as if he was born with a defect which caused his head to tilt just slightly so that he was always watching. Never interacting, just watching. That was the most unordinary thing that happened in his ordinary life.

    Thinking now, The Don knew that James Smith wouldn’t act in the face of the unordinary. He was the type to be reactionary. It may be okay to leave him be. The Don would make that decision later, because he knew it was fine to leave him as is for the moment with no future detriments. Caesar was the first problem. The detective was waiting for a case to drop at his feet so that he could make money off of The Don’s crime. There was no reward, besides being an upstanding member to society, if he was to report his crime to the police now. The same could be said with Jean. She was busy as well. Too busy to report a crime. The minute a reward was posted for finding the killer, she would jump on it. The Don was sure of it.

    He knew the order he wished to go about disposing of them but found that he would be able to take care of two of them in the same day if he went to Jean first. He felt it just as much as he saw it. Jean, Caesar, then perhaps James Smith. After that, his crime would be finished.

 

I. Jean

    Jean Paula Anderson lived in a small high rise towards the edge of the large city. She sat on the rooftop in a plastic white chair with greenery surrounding her. There were numerous of the residents' plants about. It was close to 7:00 P.M. In her hands, she nursed a bowl of rice and beans, cold now from the spring breeze and hours she’d spent trying to finish it. She was sitting so incredibly still that birds perched on her head, shoulders, and arms.

    The Don appeared next to her, clothed in black from his brimmed hat to his trenchcoat and polished shoes. The birds squawked and flew away. He stared at her, not saying a word as he waited for her to speak her piece. The bad ones deserved no ceremony, but the good deserved the finest opera to commemorate them.

    “You’re that person,” she noted. Her words were drawn out and slow-paced. Even her head which she began to tilt hadn’t fully turned towards him quite yet. “Would you like a seat? We have plenty of time tonight. Look, the moon just came out.”
    The Don saw it. Where they faced, the moon stared back directly across from them.

    “I like the moon,” Jean said. “You never see it moving, but you turn your eyes away once and suddenly it’s in a different spot in the sky. I wish I could move that fast.”

    She picked her spoon up, bringing a portion of food slowly towards her awaiting lips. The Don watched her, deeming it time to speak up.

    “You saw me and my act of violence, so I will have to kill you now,” he said frankly. “It will likely be painful. I don’t specialize in painless deaths. I will attempt to make it quick at the least. You seem to be a good person, though your worth is questionable.”

    Jean chewed on her beans and rice slowly, digesting his words. Even though he spoke thoroughly and at a consistent pace, she still wasn’t done with the small spoonful she had scooped out for herself. Her head had turned to him, though, and her green eyes stared him down. Perhaps, in her mind, she was thinking at a much faster pace than her mouth could move.

    “I…” Her body was still, yet her eyes blinked. They began to turn red, and tears fell in slow harmony. It seemed like she wanted to shake and curl up, yet she couldn’t quite move fast enough. “...I don’t want to die. I don’t want to… Why can I never…” She hiccuped, spoon in her hand falling into the bowl she held. “If only I had turned my head faster, then I would’ve never seen you. Why can I never move fast enough?”

     A choked, sobbing sound left her lips and tears fell down her cheeks, yet her body remained completely still. It was the image of a stone statue being rained on. The Don found his indifference waning. He wouldn’t take back his decision, but he hoped the woman could find solace before she died. It may not be his place to give it.

    “There is elegance in stillness,” The Don spoke up over her sobs. He faced away and watched the moon, seeing it had now moved a bit higher in the sky. “Like a painting or a large mountain. There are some animals that can remain completely still so as to hide from their predators or prey. It’s astounding.”

    “I can’t move quickly like those animals can when they’re spotted,” Jean responded, sniffle still in her voice.

    “Some of those animals often can’t either, so what they do instead is lay traps. I wonder…if you’re doing exactly that to me right now.” The Don moved around Jean, hand sliding across the back of the plastic chair and collecting dust. He held his fingers up, rubbing them together and feeling the dust disappear. “I won’t fall for your tricks, Jean.” From behind her, his hands landed on her shoulders. She didn’t flinch despite the abrupt movement but made a small sound in her throat.

     “I…didn’t…”

     “Yes, you did. You saw me, Jean. Now, let’s get started. Even if you had the ability to struggle, it would be useless. I am beyond you.”

     The Don pulled out a brown rope from his trenchcoat. He fashioned it appropriately into a noose and tied it around Jean’s neck. She remained still the entire time. Without the ability to see her face, The Don couldn’t tell if she was struggling against him or not. Once it was properly on, he circled around to the front and tied the other end to the fence along the balcony.

    Jean’s head was tilted downwards. The Don grabbed the bowl of beans and rice out of her pliant hands. Decidedly, one last time, he squatted down to meet her gaze and saw that tears were still falling. With a black gloved hand, he collected one that fell from her cheek and squashed it between his fingers.

    “Stop crying. Don’t let the moon see your tears.”

    Jean sniffled and The Don began. He grabbed both her hands and lifted her upwards. Not much strength was needed to walk her over to the edge of the balcony. From there, he lifted her waist and heaved her over the fence so the tips of her toes were dangling just over the edge with no support left in front of her. A single push was all it would take.

    “Nothing ever changed…” Jean said, staring at the moon. “I wasn’t able to change a thing.”

    “It’s okay,” The Don responded. “That’s not your job.”
    He pushed her off the edge. Her body dropped down and then snapped as the rope wound tight. The Don heard her gasping breath, but her body didn’t move. The entire time, stone still, as if she had been dead before he pushed her off.

 

II. Caesar

    He had an apartment in the middle of the city full of brick walls, wooden floors, and leather seats. Caesar was at his small square dining table when The Don entered. Surrounding him along the table were his pill bottles in a splendid barricade around a bowl of oatmeal that was untouched. He was in a maroon robe, with tousled brown hair and tired brown eyes staring deep into the bowl.

    In an astute reaction, he jumped spectacularly when The Don appeared. He almost fell out of his chair if it wasn’t for The Don’s quick grip to the back of it to keep him stable. The older man was breathing heavily and shaking like a leaf, staring up at The Don with wide, saucer-like eyes full of genuine terror.

    “I’m sorry,” were the first words that came out of his mouth.

    “There’s no need to apologize,” The Don responded, looking over to his bowl of oats. He decided to rephrase himself. “No, there’s no point in apologizing. It’s time, Caesar Antonio Garcia Hernandez. You saw me, so you must die. It is regrettable, however, that this manure is your last meal. Please allow me to make you something less regurgitating.”

    “Uh…” Caesar stared down at his oatmeal, then up to The Don. His voice wavered and his body continued to shake. “Sure. Please, uh, please do.”

    The Don got to work. He first grabbed the pills off the dining table, to which Caesar sputtered, but quickly lost confidence in continuing his attempts to speak up. In the kitchen, The Don was like a black shadow, hiding just in the edges but always watching. Caesar’s blue flames dangled and tinged together all around him like wind chimes. The Don saw the voices of the dead cluttering him. It was only their first thought after they had perished, yet its plague was great. There was never a stopping point.

    “Death never ceases,” The Don spoke. He lifted a nearby rolling pin and dropped it down with a harsh slam on the counter, smashing what was below him to bits. Caesar flinched. “The world has decided that an average of two people die every second. That’s two new voices in your head every second and two blue flames dying out. Worry not, there’s a purpose in that. There’s no such thing as a meaningless death.”

    Caesar gulped thickly. He tightened the robe around his body while looking at the blue wisps around him. “That woman…T-Then there was meaning in her death, too?”

    “Yes.”

    “Would you like to know what she said to me?” Caesar’s body was stiff as he talked, like someone trying to hold their breath but on the cusp of letting it all go.

    “No,” The Don responded in a bland tone. “I would not be able to respect that things death properly nor feel any remorse towards it. You will die with those poisonous words and many others plaguing you. There is nothing I can do about that.”

    Caesar sniffled, a stuttering choked sound, and didn’t speak further on it. No matter how much sadness and despair he felt, the blue wisps would never leave him. “I-It’s okay. This has become my silence. It’s begun to feel lonely now when there’s only one death in a second rather than two. Like something’s missing. But still…can’t I long for silence?” He curled forward, staring at the wooden dining table below.

    “That is something which I can grant you.” The Don turned around, placing a single one of Caesar’s empty pill bottles down. Then another. Then another. Caesar flinched as each one was placed in front of him in a row like a wall casing him in. It was a minuscule  tap on the wooden table, yet it felt like a sledge hammer coming down.

    The row of empty pills bottles was lined up and then the main course was served. It was oatmeal. Caesar stared at the soggy oats in confusion. Then realization slowly came to him. He looked at the oatmeal then the pill bottles. His body shook, nerves winning out and a small cry passing his lips. This was his death.

    “Go on, Caesar.” The Don motioned to him, sitting in the seat across from him. “Don’t stop. Eat every last drop. This is no horrendous, foul, pathetic meal. Eat and die. Then you will become one with silence.”

    Caesar’s hand shook as he picked up the spoon set down beside him. He dropped it, then picked it up again. It clanked against the porcelain bowl. The serving he spooned up was small, just enough for a taste. The steam caused his face to sweat. His lips parted and he took a bite, gulping it down without an inch of savoring. His eyes widened and tears fell. It tasted good.

    Caesar stared at the bowl with a small laugh.”I wonder…what my first words will be after I die.”

    “I will listen to them,” The Don told him. “But don’t expect me to immortalize them in my soul.”

    “Of course.” Caesar picked up another spoonful. “Even I don’t remember all the words spoken to me.”

    He ate. He consumed like a hungry, insatiable beast. Then, he died. He collapsed on the table, hand held out and a single blue flame floating above it. It whispered innocent words to The Don and then it, too, drifted away.

 

III. James Smith

    The ordinariness of James Smith made him impossible to track down. Many names in the large city were the exact same as his, and lined apartments all looked similar. The only indication that The Don knew he was in the right spot was the number on the door. There was a change in his movements as he knocked on the door of James. He knew what it was. This man's averageness affected him. It caused him to act in an ordinary way, knocking on his door politely instead of simply entering of his own accord.

    James answered. “Oh, you came! You’re earlier than I expected,” he said. His face was one The Don had seen millions of times before. There was nothing striking about him. “Please come in.”

    The Don walked in. There was not a thing of note inside. It was situational, he realized. The very construct of his life would change drastically depending on the person he was with to always seem normal in their eyes. The Don saw inside what he expected to see in an average person's home. He was greeted in a way he thought an average person would greet another.

    “How filthy,” The Don seethed.

    “I’m sorry. I decided to have a late night snack and wasn’t able to clean up properly.”

    “This averageness of yours is insulting. You make a mockery of the human race.” The Don walked around his living room, the kitchen connected just a pace away. “Where in this are you, James Smith?”

    “I don’t get what you mean,” he asked with genuine confusion. “I’m right here.”

    The Don looked back at him and saw nothing. There was a physical being given the name James Smith, walls and a roof to make where they were standing a room, but as he tilted his head to the side just slightly– less than even a millimeter– all he saw was a vast emptiness.

    “Sit, James Smith,” The Don said, motioning to the dining room table. “Eat as you were before.”

    The average man followed his hand and sat. The Don made his way across from him and took a seat. “You won’t eat too?” James asked.

    “No. Now eat.” As James brought a spoon back to his ice cream, The Don began to speak. “I have seen with my very eyes the inaccuracies of humans. There are those who can only speak in curses, some who travel through time in blink, and others who grow trees from their fingers. I have seen mountains toppled from being tripped and bad thoughts cause volcanoes to erupt. I’ve seen the human race and will see more still today. Right now I am seeing you, James Smith.”

    “It sounds like you’re saying more than just literally,” he stuttered back past his food. The Don slid his glass of water over to him.

    “Tell me, on the bridge that day, what did you see?” 

    James took a sip of water before speaking, clearing his throat. “I saw you and a woman. It was raining and dark so I couldn’t see too well, but I’m pretty sure it was you. You pushed that woman off the bridge. I don’t know why, but you did. There were two other people, a man with blue flames and a woman who moved in slow motion.”
    Despite James’ averageness, he had an eye for the unordinary. He could see just as The Don could. He was stunting his own growth for not tilting his head any further towards that which was unknown to him.

    “That woman upset the natural order, so she was killed. Don’t look into her death,” The Don explained curtly like an ultimatum. “Do you want to know about the other two?”

    “If you want to tell me.”

    “No, say you want it.”

    “Then I want to know. Please tell me.”

    A smile came to The Don’s face. A nostalgic one. It had been a long time since he allowed himself to do such a thing in front of another person.

    He told James Smith the story of Jean Paula Anderson and Caesar Antonio Garcia Hernandez. He told him of countless others who he had never forgotten. Living in his heart— their struggles, their anxieties, everything rested there. For the ones given proper deaths, this was all he could do.

    “But I will not tell you your story, James Smith,” The Don said, allowing himself to lean back in the chair and rest. “You must do that for me. Now speak, James Smith, and find yourself.”