The Killing Game
The gray room was small, as in a bathroom, small, with no windows and only one door. I was crowded in there with my knees pulled up to my chest in the straight-backed chair. It wasn’t totally uncomfortable, and yet, miserably so. I watched the technologically-advanced-for-clarity television tuned to the killing station. Today it was killing Irish. Didn’t matter anymore who was being done in, the faces all melded together after a while. I was Irish too, so what?
It was weird how the broadcasters knew if you watched their shows long enough, the urge to kill would come. They say it’s different for a girl, but I can’t quite believe it. I know the feel of warm blood flowing through my fingers will be sweet. The feel of a human heart in my hand, impossibly powerful.
I’d have no trouble killing. I knocked on the door to be released.
A small peephole appeared, and surprised, I looked through it. From afar I could see a man approaching. He had longish gray hair and gray eyebrows, almost white. He had a hatchet and it was not news to me that I was going to be his next victim. Only I wouldn’t let him kill me. It wasn’t me who was to die. That was the whole purpose of the killing channel wasn’t it? To teach me how to kill?
Or was it? Was it to teach me to be numb so I could understand how to die?
The man finally arrived outside and he listened by putting his ear to the door. I stepped all the way back as far as I could until my back was against the far wall. It sounded as if he was sniffing the air. What was he smelling for? Fear? Urine?
I felt the tension grow as he waited and I waited. Then the pounding began, and I jumped. His voice boomed through the wood, vibrating me to my core.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
The television flickered to life and I took my eyes off the door.
Life is like that. One slip, and you’re a goner.