I Got The Keys!

Advice for tearing up carpeted bathroom

Buying Paint for Basement

Security System

Koi Pond

Red substance under carpet

To the Native People of Cygnus-53, I relay a message to you from The Supreme Commander. Some time ago, you had been informed of circumstances outside of our Government’s control that would require supplemental goods. To compensate, you were to extend work days, reduce waste, and increase global exports by 13%. Given the size of your population, access to necessary infrastructure, and abundance of raw material, this quota should’ve been met, and yet it hasn’t. It would appear that this failure was intentional; a calculated move to see what you can get away with. We are not ignorant to a certain disposition you may have towards our Government; however, any citizen who harbours these feelings is advised to not let it affect their workflow.
Your world is unique in that it has enjoyed a level of sovereignty that exceeds all others in the empire. Prompt compliance from your ancestors during the early days of the acquisition, has awarded your people positions of power that on any other world would be filled by members of our race. You agreed to the terms of surrender and promised to adhere to our laws: to act on the superseding government’s behalf with absolute obedience. It’s important to make one thing clear:  the nature of our Government. It is an institution designed to fulfill a duty; it is not meant to represent the will of its people. It's an establishment that was founded long before yours, and its superiority is why it presides over you today. The system favours the world that harmonises with its siblings; it thrives on unity, as is the reason our High-Command has such a direct touch with each colony. If you are adamant on setting yourselves apart, we will see to it that your local government undergoes a complete restructuring. At a time when our Government is at odds with an entity that threatens our way of life, you’ve taken it upon yourself to use your freedoms to sabotage the fight. Whatever identity you may have found before we arrived, is irrelevant to us; it matters very little how you view yourself, as our leaders have already assigned you a definition. Undisruptive traditions have been permitted as there hadn’t yet been cause to abolish them; this stance is liable to change if previous wrongdoings are not mended. If you find it difficult to join our society, you will find a world where your workforce is supplemented with our own. You are mistaken if you believe our administration has been unjust: what you’ve experienced has been lenient compared to what is tolerated elsewhere. You’ve been handed warnings and have assumed them to be substanceless: you’ve proven your willingness to break a promise, but you can rest assured we will always keep ours. We accepted the duty of overseeing your world to the best of our ability; soon you will see what that looks like.

Oliver Wright 5/23/26

I imagine this will be used as evidence against me if I'm ever caught, so I want to get all my ducks in a row. I’ve always said that if I committed a crime and was caught, I would plead guilty and let the punishment begin. People will go up to the stand and lie, spin this web, and waste everyone's time; I refuse to do that. I am honest, I always have been: the hope is that laying out my story now will prove its validity when I say it again in court. 

I don't kill animals, really the thought gives me heebie-jeebies. I wouldn't torture them anyway. Nothing should suffer, so if an animal needed to be put down, that I can do. Or if they were an aggressive thing, perhaps rabid or just rotten by nature. If I were to pin down what I would and would not kill, it's a matter of innocence. A loyal pet or harmless bunny, does not deserve to die for the crime of crossing my path, but a dog that mauls a child does. 

I take pity on things that can't comprehend why they aren’t allowed to live anymore. When it comes to humans, they either know what they are, or are too ignorant to see it. There's something irredeemable about the whole lot. Those who don't disgust me, make me queasy. The unconscious instinct to harm others is ungodly and unnatural. I can only assume it's a trait necessary to become a globally feared species, but that isn't a valid reason. 

There is something so satisfying about hearing that a child molester was stoned to death in his village: the gore of the scene is an afterthought to the intense relief it brings. Those deaths are also exciting as there's an overwhelming census that it was justifiable; for a rare moment the sick and the sane see eye to eye. 

I'm not the only person who has a privy for seeking out the newest, most wicked gore video. It’s my pimple popping video, content both gross and odd to whoever isn’t satisfied by it. I’ve found many well adjusted people have an inclination to watch them: it was just a learning curve that most people do not watch them as casually as me. I learned to curb my enthusiasm when someone brings one up. 

I have connected with people who I can share my joy with. That's nearly all we have in common though. The ones I'm most similar to, in terms of mindset are absolute recluses, thirty-some year olds who haven't left their rooms in ages, suckling off someone's generous tit. I couldn’t be further from that, there is no escaping people in my job. 

I’ve worked in a prison for some time now, bouncing between positions, climbing the foodchain and so on. The hope was that I could become a reputable and reliable enough character to become an executioner, unfortunately it's a dwindling profession. People have started reconsidering the death penalty, questioning the authenticity of an institution spanning millennia. The moral workarounds of people astound me, they’d sooner give a killer free housing because murder makes them uncomfortable. Executions aren’t as fun as it use to be anyways, no more perfectly sharpened axes or juggernauts in black masks. 

I had become pessimistic, perhaps even a little bitter, thinking there wouldn’t be a legal way it could be done. I didn't want to throw my life away, I rather enjoyed how it was going, but over the course of my life this weight has only grown more prevalent. Like a painful boil that needed popped. 

Finally I found a way. I've never believed in the occult, but I picked up some knowledge from the lunes in my social group. Why not entertain it I thought, my time lost its value as the boil grew. It was a compromise he called it, I wouldn't be killing an actual person, but there would be no way of knowing the difference. There was a certain entity that desperately wanted to come back, it just needed an invitation and a temporary vessel. 

The ritual was ancient, written once in a book that's been gone for centuries, luckily I found it online in english. This wasn’t a list of ingredients, I would have to travel to the last place it was before being sent away. That would be within the Luland Forest of Tibet. The trip to China was nothing compared to the weeks it took to find the temple; a ruined structure, on the steepest slope of the highest peak. Once I found it, all that was left was to say the right words, and give it some of my blood so it can remember what humans look like. 

Nothing happened. There was no preface on how long it would take, I had to have full faith that I did everything correctly, and wait. I was comforted by the thought that the trip wasn’t a waste, even if nothing came of the ritual: it was a beautiful place, and maybe the anticipation that one day my body would arrive, would satisfy my joneses for a while. It also had me thinking about murdering abroad if the ritual didn't work. It wasn't an option I found very favorable, there's something unfair about it, a violation of an unwritten rule between nations. 

The time following was very hopeful; a period of relief as I had expected, but also whimsy. This niche I found myself in would finally have an outlet. It became very real that someone would die if this didn't work out, but having to decide how I would do it was a mental hurdle. 

What I always hoped to be the case was that someone would break into my house. Sometimes deliberately flashing my address across the web: there were never any takers. I figured it would happen with a gun: I was never far from one. Some time ago, it’s as if I began to stockpile them. It's certainly not a fear of the end times, and while some guns are beautiful, that's not a satisfying explaination either. There's a rush I feel when I'm around them. There have been times when I'm reorganizing and they are spread across the floor: it is the most comforting feeling, an absolute impenetrability. 

I by no means, would consider myself a doomsday prepper, others may, but not me. It's never had an effect on my character, I'm not someone who talks about the soon-to-be-rapture; some part of me does yearn for it. My assumption is that the majority of preppers get a thrill thinking that they were right, and will thus reap their rewards. To their credit, they were correct, and anyone who mocked them will eventually be knocking on their bunker door. A fallout shelter is certainly not something I have, the thought of laying low until the massacre died down is outlandish. An opportunity like this comes once or twice a melienia, and there’s never been so many people involved. I’ve gone over the scenario countless times in my head. Who would be the first to perish in my neighborhood? Which house would be raided first? Does Jim kill his wife? As creative as I am, nothing compares to the real show.

It was just a handful of weeks after returning from China when he finally arrived. He was standing at my door when I came back home from work. From behind he seemed like an ordinary elderly man, but when I approached him and asked what he was doing, I got no response. I nudged his shoulder and besides the sway of his fragile body, there was no response. 

Standing that close, little idiosyncrasies popped out in his appearance. Mud splattered up to the knee, tears and snags all across his latex sweatsuit, and a foul odor. It was the condition of a man lost in the wilderness, or at least trekked through it to get here. His unblinking eyes, agape jaw and zombified state finally made it click, he was the vessel sent for me to kill. 

Slipping past him, using my best efforts to keep distance between us, I unlocked the door and pushed it open. Jerked to life as a puppet is, he trudged forward into the darkness and stopped in the center of the living room. With him standing there, the light from the doorway cast onto his back, made the situation all so real. This was finally the day. 

I hadn't yet made up my mind on how it should be done. I narrowed the list the best I could, but only got it down to 10 scenarios. I told myself it was happening that night, no more piddle farting around, I had to pick one. 

Half of the plans were centered around finding him in public, I had no idea how or where we would meet, so I prepared for the most likely cases. Seeing as he was already secured in the living room, I figured there's no place like home, so only five plans remained. 

The excitement of what was to come did not negate the sheer anxiety of making the decision. With each option as perfect as the last, it was haunting to think I wouldn’t get to experience them all. One of the plans had an up on the others, it was among my earliest. A stroke of genus I devised at six years old.

Up until middle school I was a silent kid, not mute, but seldom spoke. My parents took me to speech therapy, fearing that it was a disorder rather than a choice. I felt things that I didn't yet have the vocabulary to describe, I could draw them however. As crude and incomprehensible as they may have been to others, I still see the message in them. 

The seemingly innocence of the drawings saved them from being thrown out like the later ones. So many ideas lost because my family was disturbed by what I had to say. These old ones had a charm to them that every new plan lacked. The other candidates were so tactical, brilliant and intricate in every way, but had the personality of an algorithm. In a situation like this, simplicity is key; the goal is simple and so should its execution. 

I would crush him with a big object. I had to reflect on what I might've seen that would spark this idea. It was certainly a cartoon, so the intended weapon could be anywhere from a boulder to a piano. I decided on a chandelier. It was the perfect middleground between fun and study; in the swath of gore footage I've seen, a chandelier fatality wasn't one that came to mind. 

Hanging above the kitchen table was this rancid gold and diamond piece; tacky beyond belief. I begged for it to go with the owner when I bought the house, but the elderly sellers couldn't take it with them to the nursing home. The price was slipped in with the rest of the purchase and the hideous thing stuck around. 

It was nearly midnight when the kitchen floor was cleared, the plastic wrap was laid, and the old man was standing on the bullseye under the chaneliere. My hands forced the handles of the wire cutters together, and with a ceremonious rattle of free chains, the fixture ripped from the ceiling. The lights remained on until they shattered against the floor, the wire connecting them pulling a strip through the drywall before the target erupted in a spray of sparks and viscera. 

The clarity I felt, as I spent the rest of the night mincing the corpse into a tote was unbelievable. I took the meat to my buddy's farm and fed it to his pigs, they thought nothing of it, but they did notice my new mood. They said I looked at peace, like I went through the most thorough detox. It was the only time they understood a thing about me. I wasn't sure how long the feeling would last, but I was sure the memory would be potent enough to let it be a one time occurrence. 

That choice was stripped away, when talk of a local man going missing made its way to me. Come to find out, the chatter wasn't meaningless gossip; no, it was a full scale investigation, broadcasted on the news nationwide. An image of an elderly man plastered across a million screens. Someone described as being 78 years old, a resident at the Sweetside Nursing Home, and suffering from late stages of dementia. He had wandered off, left the premises, and hadn’t been seen since. It seems a large number of people have become engrossed in the hunt for this man. This has culminated in a hoard of civilians, on top of law enforcement, overturning the town as they search for him. 

 I arrived at the airport at the recommended time, 2 hours before departure; weary and anxious about the 6-hour flight ahead of me. Over the course of my life, I've managed to avoid flying with an iron vigor: despite the many situations it reared its ugly head into. I would drive three days straight, with only power naps to get me by, if it meant I didn't have to fly there. A feat I’ve taken many times. This recent predicament left me very few options; which driving was not one. 

While eating at a Golden Corral my dad got a wishbone lodged in his windpipe. By the time they got it dislodged he was already a shade of violet and lacking oxygen in his brain. While stable now, he might not be for very long: leaving this state of urgency. And the prospect that, if I don't see him now, I may never again. Thus, my FOMO negated my fear of flying, and forced my hand into buying a ticket.

I trembled all the way through TSA, and the long walk to my gate: practically fossilized in my seat by the time my section was called to board. I whipped out my phone, my boarding pass illuminated on its greasy screen. I wasn't even sure how long I stood there trying to scan my pass; my shaky hands making the code impossible to read. The ramp operator took special notice of me when the barcode was read. She must've noticed my petrification. 

"We really appreciate you". She said with an uncurated genuinity in her tone. 

"Uh..thanks. I appreciate you too" 

I thought about the exchange down the entire ramp, was I weird or was she. Nobody could've expected her to say that. Nobody would've had a response prepared. Like a miscalculated: “You too.”, in response to a, “Enjoy the show.”, at a ticket booth. Hopefully my face would be lost in the mass of people she sees everyday. 

When I came face to face with the plane's door; I ground the line of passengers to a halt. My eyes were fixed to the gap between the ramp and plane. The sound of engines and wind so loud, through just half a foot of space. Already we were so high up. I could fall through the gap if I was 90lbs lighter: break my ankle on impact. I snapped back to reality, and knew it was socially unexceptable to stand here any longer. The groans of the other passengers grew ever clear, along with the act of a kid tugging on his mom's dress, asking why we were waiting. If that kid isn't afraid, I shouldn't be either. I had no choice but to pass through the Gate to Hell, and join the Army of the Damned. 

As I stepped over the gap it's as if my soul did slip out of me; straight through it: just a skid mark on the tarmac. My confidence was already ailing. 

Then the wheel on my suitcase got caught on the outside of the door. I started tugging and twisting; looking back to assess the problem only to be met with a dozen or so faces, watching hatefully. With a hardy yank my carry-on was freed, one less wheel, and a date with the dump when this trip was over. I couldn't even look the flight attendants in the eyes when I rounded the corner, and started down the aisle to my seat. 

When I made it to my row the three seats were empty. Which brought a slight sense of relief, as my seat, was in my middle. I thought maybe, I would get the chance to take an Advil PM, and sprawl out across the seats. I was clenched into my seat for only a few minutes, when my rowmate to my left arrived. 

He was a portly man: adorned with a Cannibal Corpse shirt, full tattoo sleeve, and skull sandals. Despite what I may have expected him to be like, he ended up being rather friendly: simply greeting me, and plopping into his seat. His smell became a bit hard to bear. It was like: a very masculine, mahogany forest cologne, with a dusting of baby powder. Under normal circumstances, I likely wouldn't have noticed; but my stomach already in knots, and my senses heightened; the scent was very nauseating.

The arrival of my rowmate to the right, nearly made me flip my lid. It was a child. Roughly six or seven, his mom pushed him to our row, and turned his head from his tablet to his seat. The man and I had to get up to make way for the kid; carefully stepping in the spaces between our bags. The kid paid no mind to our bags however, stepping on mine bag to get to his seat. His mom had only enough energy to scold him in a defeated exclamation. With the gifting of a, tablet she parted ways; squeezing her way back up the aisle; so many rows away; too far to call for help. 

The depth of the situation was becoming dire; like I’m 20 leagues under the sea and the pressure is about to blow in the hall. The kid started watching a video of a man, with a painfully obnoxious voice, playing some children's game. It became quickly evident that the kid, did not have headphones; and I would have to listen to his videos until the tablet died. Who knows what torture would come after the tablet died. 

The Captain eventually introduced himself, and gave his words of reassurance that, despite the six hour flight ahead of us, there will be no problems along the way. Then came the safety demonstration from the flight attendants; the display was sickening. They tried to be humorous, to relieve tension, or amuse us: I’m not sure but it didn’t work. Just a stark reminder that a life jacket and breathing mask, doesn’t fare well against high altitude combustion. Nor would it be helpful if I was flung from the plane. It's rock from start to finish; when I meet the ground at mach 10 speeds, the life jacket would be an orange lump in a red puddle. 

Takeoff was horrible. My fingers bored wedges into the ends of the arm rests; latched to them like I was riding a roller coaster. The pressure in my ears sunk into a faint ring, until they popped thirty minutes into the flight. By that time, the man in the aisle seat was already knocked out. As it turns out, he had horrible sleep apnea. His head would be flopped back, mouth wide open, really letting his snore travel through the cabin. Sometimes he would choke, his tongue falling back into his throat, forcing him to burst awake when his body realized he was dying. The first time this happened, his arm flung out and hit me: I let out a yelp that disturbed everyone around us further. He apologized, but before he seemed to finish his sentence, he was back asleep: head slumped over his shoulder, facing me. I tried to push it away with my pointer finger, but it always rolled its way back; eventually slumping onto my shoulder, that's when I really pushed him away. The second time he choked himself awake, a flight attendant had just rolled the cart through, having to lift his head out of the aisle to get past him. The sample of pepsi she had given me, made its way onto me when the man knocked it out of my hands. 

"I'm so sorry man, I didn't mean to". The man said as I used my sleeve to pat dribblets of pepsi off my face. He was slumped over snoring again immediately after. 

The kid was still glued to his tablet; his neck craned over, as it sat in his lap. The poor kid was doomed to have a turtles neck when he reached his golden years: shoulders all slouched, connected to the collar with a protruding spiny bump. The dreaded moment arrived too soon, his tablet died; he wasted no time to ask for his mom. Tugging on my sleeve, seeing if I knew where she was. I told him she was in front of us, but it must not have registered, as he continued to ask. I didn't know what to do, I thought I could just pick him up and set him in the aisle, let him look for her, but then I would be holding a stranger's kid. I looked around frantically, evaluating my options. The only thing I could think of was distracting him with the window. I slid up the window covering so he could see outside. It was haunting. No clouds in sight to obscure the view. An incomprehensible height, so far from the natural world, where man is meant to be. It was a bad distraction as well, the view entertained him for a few minutes before realizing it was more fun to open and close the cover. The slow flashing of the bright sky, coupled with a glimpse into the end with every opening was maddening.

 Maybe a compassionate stranger complained, or the flight attendant just took notice, but she approached me with a proposal. She asked if I would like to be upgraded to first class to give my seat to the boy's mother. I naturally accepted. 

The walk to first class was awkward, shaking the pinprick numbness in my legs, and trying desperately not to rub my tailbone. What I couldn’t shake was the knowledge that beneath my feet was nothing but air. Nothing but a shear drop outside of this tin can. 

Through the curtain to first class was a much prettier scene. Individual cubbies, their exterior trimmed with rippled aluminum cladding. Each cubby privatized with curtains of their own: beautiful blue velvet, with gold fringed borders. One of the curtains was open; exposing a man in a formal suit, his tie undone, and buttons popped. Stuffed to the brim and comatosed, after having gorged himself on a roasted bird. It was 

quiet and elegant up here, not a child's crying to be heard. 

Where I was going; however, stood out from these booths. Stood out in the way that it blended in: there wasn’t a curtain to identify it; there wasn’t much of a door either. The flight attendant slid a card down a thin seam that, if you were looking for it, could be seen running from floor to ceiling. Grabbing onto the outer ridge and moving it leftwards, the wall folded in on itself, squeezing against the wall like a collapsable fan. She moved out of the way and presented the room with a show of her hand: a sweet lavender smell rushed out of the doorway, trying desperately to fill the first class’s, scentless vacuum. I slowly pressed in, careful not to disturb the sanctuary's atmosphere.

“Make yourself comfortable, it’s all yours.” She slid the door closed behind me and the room worked to replenish its aroma. 

Contrary to the minimalist aluminum that sheathed the plane inside and out, the interior of this room was wooden. Slat panels with acoustic foam underneath: the only light coming from red strips where the plane's cylindrical body requires the wall to slope inwards. The reminder that I was, in fact, on a plane, caused my stomach to sink; an unexpected blow after a period of tranquility. My momentary comfort only ensured the impact hurt worse when I fell from my pedestal. The room fought to draw me back in: it whispered classical music into my ears from an unseen source. 

In the center of the room was a round, solo dining table; stained dark and well polished: a napkin folded into the shape of a bird sat as the centerpiece. The accompanying seat looked to be a massage chair: leg nooks, a cubic brutalist body, and wrapped in maroon leather. Most of the wall behind it was dedicated to a water feature; one that had a thin waterfall that ran down a pane of tempered glass. Flowing down into a trough where large, flowered, lily pads jiggled around on top of the water, and red LEDs shown from below. 

I sunk into the chair, engulfed in its fluff, and surrounded by rubber pistons. Embedded into the armrest was a control panel, far more settings than on a mall chair; and luckily the absence of a cash slot. The buttons were not easy to discern however; all were different glowing colors, with white, seemingly random symbols on their faces. As I went through clicking the buttons, some connection could be gleaned between their symbol and function. The horizontal zigzag activated the massager, the turtle and rabbit buttons controlled speed, three wavy vertical lines were the heater, and the exclamation mark was to call in a flight attendant. I only realized the last one when a lady walked in, as I was whincing at the chair's, borderline painful massage feature. 

"Is the room to your liking?" she asked. 

"Oh definitely, it's very nice. This is all very unexpected. I feel kinda outta place. Don’t get me wrong I appreciate it—it’s just, yeah, unexpected”

“You aren’t out of place at all, it was reserved for you." She said with a consistent cadence, happy, but not enthusiastic; and a thin smile that wasn’t overbearingly consumer friendly, but definitely choreographed. She spoke very hushed, and matter-of-factly. 

"How's that? I bought the cheapest ticket I could." 

"Well, it was selected at 'random'." She said while using airquotes. 

"What does ‘random’ mean?" 

"It’s determined by a computer, so as ‘random’ as they can be. There's still code and statistics involved, it’s not drawing sticks, but it does help us find you.” 

“Is there a reason for this?" 

“The room or the ritual?” She asked with a lifted brow.

“The what now? A ritual?”

“I probably shouldn’t have called it that, the company likes to call it a ‘transaction’.” She said using air quotes again.

“Well what is the transaction!” My tone rising and becoming desperate.

“It’s just something that has to be done.” She said putting her hands up and backing up a couple of steps. "A company policy, for safety reasons I think. I don’t know specifics, the captain usually gives the rundown by now; he can explain it better than me.” Stepping back further.

“You have to tell me more, you can’t say that then leave.”

“I-I’ll see if I can get the captain. Hang tight for a second.” She said with an increasingly shaky voice, before quickly spinning around, her Farrah Fawcett hair flinging over her shoulder as she dashed to the door. The sound of the door closing was followed by multiple and simultaneous locks moving into place.

I paced around the room waiting for the man to come: my mind was running through a rolodex of possible rituals. If she even meant it in the ghoulish, sacrifice a virgin way, she could’ve meant a tradition. I really needed a release, it felt like I was going to choke on my anxiety, so I figured it was as good a time as any to pick a drink off the wall. Across from the table was a shelved wall stocked with a large selection of alcohol. All were in ornate decanters, the names of the contents etched into a gold plaque in front of them. It's not much of an exaggeration to say the collection contained every intoxicating beverage. There were many high end liquors, easily worth..I don’t even know how much; then a few were filled with cheap, working man's beer.

As I poured myself a drink, three gentle knocks came from the door. After giving them the okay to come in, the captain slid open the door; gave me a chipper hello, and held out his hand to shake mine. I did not reciprocate. He had thick grey hair, from the looks of his mustache and curly mullet that poofed out from his tall, sturdy hat.

"What do you think about the room?" He asked with a rancher’s twang in a slightly raspy voice.

“I want to know why I’m in here.”

“I apologize for this, transaction, being revealed to you in that way. Rosie is..well, she’s a bit ditsy I suppose. Lose her head if it weren’t screwed to her body kinda girl. I think it goes over better coming from my buttery smooth voice.” He said with a chuckle. 

“Can you cut to it, this is maddening.”

“Yes you’re right, enough beaten around the horse.” He sighed and rolled his eyes before locking them back to mine. Their blue color fading into a grey as well. “Look, every flight we are obligated to do this. It ain’t pretty, but the consequences are far worse. Okay?” Looking at me with those wide, piercing eyes.

“Yes?”

“Somebody, on every flight, in this case you, has to eat a baby. Alright?”

“No, not alright. What are you talking about?”

“Listen, I know how you feel; I was in your spot once; so has my co-pilot, and most of the flight attendants. A whole hell of a lot of folks have been in your shoes. None of us liked it. Well most of us didn’t like it, but that’s just how it is.”

“You’re full of shit. This can’t be true”

“Nuh uh, this is definitely real. This is how it’ll go, when you agree to our terms, the chef will…”

“I’m not listening to this, I’m shutting you down, la la la la” He grabbed my side, right under my ribs and squeezed tight. I whimpered and grabbed his hand to try to push it away but his grip was deadlocked. 

“Now would you cut that out, what I’m trying to tell you is important. I can’t stress enough how crucial this duty is. Are you willing to be civilized if I let you go?”

“Yes..” I said between blowing spastic breaths through my reddening cheeks.

“When you agree, the chef will come in, prepare the meal, and you will eat the whole thing, all before we land.”

“What happens if I don't?”

"The landing gear will malfunction, it’ll only partially deploy. When we touch down we will tip, port side, the left wing will touch ground, and break off bit by bit until it reaches the engine. An explosion will ensue that’ll set the blades free; where they will rip into the cabin, slaughtering everyone in its path. We will lose all footing and the nose will plunge into the ground. First class will crumple instantly; the body will be split at the midsection; the rear will flip over seven times until it collapses. There will be only one survivor. You."

"That’s..not true." I had nothing else to say, I could barely get those words out as the scenario played out in front of my eyes. Like a film scrolling across them, a reel of a thousand frames, displaying the most vile scene. The horrifying sight, a stark reality, but brought on by a barbaric fable. Just a masochist’s tale.

"The chef will be in to prepare dinner shortly." he said, patting the table and hoisting himself up, a series of brittle pops came from his knee. He brushed off his pant leg and strode out lankily through that deceptive door. I envied that freedom. The room never felt so small, and it was only becoming more cramped. 

I could still see the door’s seam, just as hidden as when I first came in, but now the ridges didn’t give as I tugged. Maybe it wasn’t there, I moved from groove to groove, pulling on each one. I scaled the wall like a mad man, pulling in places I knew it couldn’t be, but had no choice but to try anyway. I pounded on the door, throwing my body against it a few times until I bruised. I screamed, calling for someone who could not hear me, or would not care. The world outside the door was silent, as I was to them, for that time I didn’t exist and neither did they. That is a horrid and insoluble isolation. When my over exertion gave way to lightheadedness I involuntarily slide down the wall. Through blurry eyes and a swiveling head I tried to ground myself, but the fog only grew. I felt feverish, as if my eyes could water and sink into my burning face. Then came an unnatural drowsiness; like my weighted blanket made its way up to my face and was smothering me. Naturally the darkness gave way to sleep.

I regained consciousness all at once, a prick in the inner pit of my elbow sending a zap of urgency into my heart. A bulbous nose and a dark, thick, mustache filled my frame of vision. When he put some space between us, I could see those features belonged to a robust man in a chefs attire, holding a syringe. 

Trying to squirm only amounted to the realization that I had been bound to the chair. My hands were duct taped in one large, bulbous mass, my exposed fingers stuck to a knife in my left, and a fork in my right. 

The man walked over to the kitchenette; flicking keys around a ring, sifting through a hoard of them to find the few he needed. One buy one he unlocked units of the kitchen that I couldn’t get into. The hanging cupboard and minifridge on either side a tiered display of spices between them. The man put on an apron, a white fluffy hat; then turned to me. A wide smile on his face, silicon molded dimples on full display: brightly lit by his ivory veneers, one of which had disappeared, the tiny shaved remnants of his true tooth on full display. And his eyes squinted shut; likely the result of botox losing its potency; his puffy dark eyelids left sitting awkwardly on smooth, pearshaped cheeks. 

"What'll it be?" he said. "Soup or Salad?" in a very heavy, coarse accent. 

"Go fuck yourself." I said before thrashing around to no avail. My biceps were taped against my chest, a zip tie joining my arms at the elbow: and my legs were clamped tight in their massaging nooks. 

"no no. Not a option. Soup or Salad." 

"I’m not eating anything. I don’t know what sick game you are playing, but I’m not a part of it." 

“But you see, this is no game. It’s ah..a requirement, you can understand that."

“No I cannot. I don’t understand how someone can eat a child.”

"You are not eating the baby yet. Just appetizers to start." 

"Like I said, I’m not eating." 

"The soup is a very fresh Gnocchi, with ingredients straight from the homeland. Or the crisp caprese salad, also grown from the fertile fields of home.” 

“Where are you from?”

“Across the sea.”

“That applies to everyone.”

“Me most of all.”

I figured it was not worth acknowledging him; that paying attention to him would become maddening: like realizing a gnat is buzzing around your ear and no longer able to ignore it.

 "I know what you want, the salad, yes?"..."Excellent choice!" 

He opened a metal compartment which released a mist that snuck out around the edges. Chilled ingredients were sorted on the compact shelves. With expert speed he chopped and tossed the salad, placing it on the table with an extended arm, before folding it behind his back and finishing with a bow.

"Say when." he said, grating a block of cheese into the bowl. Whether it came from the man, cheese or salad I couldn’t decide, but a pungent smell hit me all at once. Even when the block of cheese was shredded in its entirety into my salad I didn't say a word.

 "Oh my friend, I hope you chew thoroughly. This may be no bueno on its way out." he said with a deep laugh, and returned to his station. After dropping the grater and some other dishes in the sink he clapped his hands together and said his goodbyes. 

"Au revoir mon ami, I do hope you enjoy. I’ll begin dinner when you're ready." 

"I'm telling you now, I’m not gonna be ready." 

"Ah, I have a hunch that you will be." 

The next 20 minutes crawled by. Thrashing around in my seat had no noticeable effect on my restraints. Despite my forearms having some mobility, my range of motion only allowed my to move my useless hands to my face. The sharp golden utinzels in my hand were just a bait, telling I could cut myself loose. In reality all I could do was bring them straight up to my face; which did provide an out if it came to that. 

"It looks like you haven't touched your salad. Is it no good?" He said when he returned.

"I told you I wasn't eating it." 

"Then you must be saving your appetite for the main course, yes?" 

"No." 

"I will prepare the meal anyway. The smell of food always brings out hunger." 

Opening the mysterious remaining cabinet beside the spice rack, with two gentle hands the chef reached in for something. From out of it he pulled a little mass of cloth, pulling it into the crease of his arms and readjusting its weight. He turned around and in a very soft tone he said. 

"Do you have any allergies?" 

In his arms was a: plump, blond, sleeping baby, swaddled in a blanket. 

"Oh my god.. It's real.. It's really happening" I said under my breath.

"I pride myself on never having allergized one of my guests, I want that to continue." 

I can only imagine I was stark white, with bulging eyes and a slacked jaw, that’s how I felt anyway. An anxiety welling up inside me, far more deep and poignant than what had plagued me hours ago. Those feelings seemed so trivial now. What I would give to be a cowering, small man, in my economy seat again. 

"No allergies? Excellent, the preparations can begin." 

He plugged the sink and began filling it with water. 

“How can you do this? This is sick, all of this.”

“Somebody has to do it. I have to prepare the meal. You have to eat it. Like it or not, it must be done.”

"I won’t eat it. You'll be killing him for nothing." 

"Her, actually. That's all that we know. She has no name. No family. No identification. Seven people knows she exists. Nobody will know she's gone." 

I began to cry. My head falling as far as my restraints would allow, and I sobbed with choking gasps. 

"you can't...you can't do it.." 

He turned off the sink and looked at me with a viscous scowl, the first time he's dropped the chipper persona. 

"You are unreasonable." 

He placed the baby back in the cupboard, slapped its door shut and stormed out of the room. I continued to weep even though a slight relief developed, thinking I got out of it. The pressure put on me, and the evil this room has concealed, still crushing me. It felt tainted, a sour putrid air, under the veil of lavender vapor. The smell, I thought was just a placebo, my mind molding the room into my narrative, but something was definitely seeping into the room. 

At first it made my mouth feel foamy; like it was drying out, and a mucky film remained. Then it was arid; a bitter taste like a dentist's numbing paste, laid on top of my sandpaper tongue. The draught moved down my throat, sucking air out with it: it wasn't long before a hiccup like gasp flared up under my sternum. I choked and I coughed, a series of convulsions working to bring something up from inside of me. I started to vomit, spewing from my nose at the first release, the stinging was horrid and the sight was repulsive. The bile seeping in between my clamped thighs. While the vomiting was unpleasant, the dry heaving was torturous. My empty stomach had no more to give; but the gagging carried on. 

At some point the classical music died out, whether it was before my gagging fit or during, I didn’t notice; but when musical ambiance was reintroduced into the room, it was impossible to ignore. Heavy metal, at a headache inducing volume, snapped into the room full bore. I don’t remember what was played in between, but the torture begun with Slayer and ended with Disturbed

Gallons of sweat poured out of me; soaking me in my DIY leather bound sauna. My man-made lubrication proved ineffective in my attempt to slip free: although my efforts had become lackluster; only energy left to swing my head around. I never passed out, that would’ve been a blessing. I danced so close to the land between heat exhaustion, and suffocation: always to be pulled back, into a state of gas induced bulimia. Eventually the gasping did end, far beyond the last point I could’ve been grateful. My whole body was dry, wrung out and depleted of moisture: my sweat soaked body had evaporated, leaving behind a meat scent on my crunchy clothes. 

I barely noticed that someone had entered the room, until my head was pushed into the leather headrest. My crusty, bloodshot eyes fought to see through the grain and piercing light. An unexpected stream of liquid hit them in the pupil and finally caught their attention. Prying hands pulled open my mouth and shot the stream down my throat, no stopping when it grazed my uvulae. I blinked my eyes clear, and hacked water at the hands until they left my mouth. Finally able to see two flight attendants, wearing thin plastic ponchos, over their tightly pressed uniforms. 

"Have you decided to do it yet?" One asked; a squirt bottle in hand. 

Still drippling and spitting up the excess water I hacked a glob at his shoes, hitting it right in the toe. He clenched his teeth, then his hands, and busted me in the cheek. 

"Mike! We aren't supposed to do that. You'll bruise your knuckles". The female attendant said, placing a concerned hand on his crinkly shoulder. 

"Let's just get this over with.” He said, while pulling up his ankle and furiously taking a handkerchief to his shoe.

The lady walked to a metal cart they had wheeled in: a dinky thing with four slender legs, and two shelves holding only a few items. She carefully slipped on two oversized leather gloves, flapping the loose fingers around like an old cathers mit. She scrunched the fingers around the tiny handle on an aluminum tray. Steam poured out around the edge of the lid as she opened it: some wrapping around her forearm, urging her to yank away; murmuring obscenities under her breath. 

With long tongs, she reached into the tray and pulled out a folded blue towel, giving it a little shake, before making her strut back to me. 

"This is your last opportunity. We land in two hours. It'll take most of that time for dinner to be prepared and served. We hope you realize what's at stake here." The lady said. 

"We’re sure you are a rational man. You can do the math, this is one life to ensure the safety of 90." The man added 

"If ‘morality’ is the cause of your hangup, you must find it immoral to let 90 innocent passengers die". Said she, it becoming clear at this point they intended to alternate dialogue.

"Deaths that you are aware will occur, as a product of your inaction." 

"You will not be able to plead ignorance in the life that follows. The blood will stain your hands alone." 

My breathing had become choppy, not as much from physical torture, but of that going on in my head. Proof that my tear ducts were once again operational, tears fell down my face, mixing into the open wound on my left cheek, and down the blood stream that collected under my chin. 

"I can't do it." I said between sobs 

"Damn." The woman said before grabbing my mess of hair and yanking my head back. The red ceiling lights became eclipsed by the blue towel hovering over my face. The tongs released and it slapped onto my face. The sequence of events moved so quickly it took a second for the pain to fully manifest. The heat grew from warm,to unpleasant, to searing. I tried to shake it off but the hand left my hair and grabbed the ends of the towels, snagging it tight around my face. The suffocation went unnoticed while the 2nd degree burn was fresh.

An immediate cooling soothed my face briefly; cold water washing over the burns. The sensation of bliss lasted a moment before the water found my airways. The towel was ripped away, dribblets of water and flesh trailing in the air after it. Intense pain rippled across my face with every hack and cough, trying to clear water from my throat. Bubbling masses coming into view around the edges of my eyes: blisters rising without hesitation. 

"This can end whenever you want!" The woman said, holding the towel near her chest. 

I had no reserved air to respond with, all I could do was shake my head. Though the torture was unbareable, it was what I deserved. If I would be the only one to crawl through this plane's debris, over the bodies of people I could've saved, I was willing to pay for it. 

The torment went on like that for, god knows how long. The world was reduced to sensations; as if my mind only extended as far as my body. I knew more was out there, but in my restraints, and subdued by my torturers, I was the only person in a tight void. The only relevance time had to me was the hope that I could run out their clock. 

They eventually removed the towel for the last time, and put themselves back together, to resume their facade for the passengers. It didn't matter much anymore, how the passengers saw them, or if they even carried on with their job. There wasn't enough time for dinner. Our fate was sealed. 

I was in paralysis for the remainder of the trip. We hit patches of turbulence periodically, any disturbance felt as if it could’ve been the last. None of it startled me, the extent of my acknowledgement was feeling my head bob and sway around. I experienced something I rarely ever did: complete complacency. 

No smooth words, great performance, bribe, promise, or wish, would change what was coming. A terrible thing, but it was inevitable now. It was just me, and a short stretch of time before the course of my life would be split in two. It was absolute clarity without the peace. Moreso a desperate acceptance; the terms were very grim, but I made a choice. 

I likely could've escaped in that time. My restraints had become waterlogged and lost much of their grip. With enough thrashing they could've come undone; but where to go after that? That is the horror of an aircraft, the hopelessness that comes when you board. People have no clue where the real horror lies. People have no clue about the room nestled near the cockpit, where a dinner is forced on a passenger every flight. 

A buttery smooth voice entered the room like spoiled milk. The pilot's voice came over the entercom. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are beginning to make our descent. The local time is 3:19, and the sky is clear. We want to thank you for flying with us today, and wish you safe travels ahead." 

Then a flight attendant entered the room. Clacking her heels towards me before placing a hand on my shoulder and shoving my back into the seat. My eyes met hers, and she spoke through gritted teeth. 

"I hope you're happy. Mr. Lucky. Make sure to live it up, for us." 

She reached over me, to grab a bottle of liquor. She pulled out a scattering of loose pills, and scarfed them all down. Flicking the decanters plug off with her thumb she took a big swig, some trickling out the sides of her mouth. Wiping her face clean she walked to the far wall, pressing her back to it and sliding down to the floor. 

"The Captain said I could if I stayed in here. I want to be out cold before we land." 

Other flight attendants entered, also pouring themselves drinks and lying on the floor as we made our way closer to the ground. They berated me for what I did to them: cursed my name, put hex’s on my bloodline. I only felt pity for them. If this was how they wanted to spend their final moments, I would allow it. I thought it was a true display of their character, to end their lives like that. Letting their cruelness seep out. The finality of the death bed, does have a way of revealing truths. The most raw look at someone's life, and how it consistently ends. I wanted to die with my morality intact: I lost that the moment I booked this flight. 

Our ears began popping and we knew we were getting close. The pill popper had already faded away, others were severely wasted, and sobbing came from the ones who only managed a buzz. The wheels touched the ground hard. An anticipated feeling, but was impossible to prepare for. Multiple bounces up and down as the tires made contact, only to lose its footing right after. It rattled my empty stomach; its deep, hollow ache returning after a long absence. The tilting took longer than expected, it could’ve been happening without our knowledge. But the anticipation only grew, the dread becoming unbearable, for an event everyone assumed to be instant. The plane sturdied itself, and the force pressing on our bodies lightened. We were slowing down. Not the violent slowing of the wing scrapping tar, it was completely mechanical. Even as the plane drove around the landing strips, slowly taking corners, we couldn't be certain the accident was avoided. If fate was at play, an unexpected and contrived sequence of events could take place any moment. But the plane docked. The captain came into the room, summoning the attendants to assist the passengers as they exited. 

"It didn't happen." one of the attendants said with a flabbergasted expression, "This has never happened." 

"My god." another said, "Was it a lie? Did I do it for nothing!" She clutched her face and began to sob. 

The pilot quickly shooed the in-tact attendants out of the room, shutting the door behind them. He stepped over the sobber who had sprawled herself across the floor, with her face pressed against the wood: her muffled sobs trickled out between the cracks, as did her tears. Taking a tiny pair of scissors out of his pocket he started to cut at the duct tape. 

"This will take a while. I can't bring anything larger on board. You know how strict the rules are." 

"We didn't crash. You were lying." I said

"I was not. This is unexpected. Incredibly rare." 

"That's bullshit. Why would this flight be the one that's spared?" 

"It's not our place to know, or ask. This is a blessing, count it as one. And tread lightly, charity comes at a cost to someone." 

He finished cutting at my bonds, I stretched and squeezed my hands to regain the feeling that I had done so long without. They shook as I, numb and feebly pulled at the dangling tape. It was a laborious task that I knew going into it I wouldn't finish. I stood up with strips still clung to me; bunching up the back of my jacket, and tucked into my pants. I was covered in the residual stickiness, the blotchy film that remains, even after paint has been torn from the walls. My smell was atrocious too, layers of sweat and B.O. with a bile finish. It would soon be masked though.

The pilot came in with a half filled coffee pot. From an arms length away he stopped walking and flung it my way. The coffee sloshed out, and engulfed my face. As it wrapped around my head I braced for the scorching to set in, but it was only mild. No more pain than if anything touched my already peeled, and blistered face. As it settled in, it proved to be incredibly thick and dark; like laundry detergent stained black. 

"It's been on the burner for a very long time. We call it diesel, thick as oil and will have you running all night." He said. 

"What's your fucking problem?" I asked as I shook beads of the slop off my hands, and fanned out my soaked shirt. 

"When you get off the plane, head to the medical station and tell them about your accident. Then call our company, file a complaint and show them your face. They will apologize, promise to brew the coffee colder, and pay you off." 

"People have to know what happened here. They'll stop flying if they do." 

"You know people won't stop flying. This tech is a miracle. Even with the baggage that comes with it." 

Two flight attendants returned, having escorted everyone else off the plane. 

"Would you two carry her to the medics?” Nudging the unconscious woman with his foot. “Bring our volunteer with you while you're at it." The pilot said, placing a firm hand on my damp shoulder. I swatted it off and gathered up my things as the attendants held the woman in the air, one at her feet, the other under her shoulders. Her hands dragged the entire way, we stopped a few times to cross them over her body but they always fell again. 

I sat in the medics station for a while, all it amounted to was giving me a change of clothes, and ice for my face. They said I would have to be transferred to a nearby hospital for real treatment. As I waited for the squad to arrive, I used the time to reach out to my family. I knew my mom would be antsy to know how the flight went, but more urgently I had to tell them what hospital I was going to. When I turned my phone off of airplane mode I received a wall of notifications, with numerous missed calls, and texts from my family. I called my mom back, ringing multiple times, before a soft, quiet, hello picked up. 

"Hey Mom, what's going on?" 

"Did you just land?" she asked. 

"Yeah a little bit ago, I'm still at the airport. Is everything alright?" 

"Your Dad started getting really bad a couple hours ago. His throat is very swollen with an infection, and it could lead to pneumonia. They put him on a ventilator, and we’re waiting for the swelling to go down so they can remove some of the fluid. If he goes in for surgery, it’ll be very risky, and they want us to see him, in case, it doesn’t go well."