It was a rainy Tuesday morning when Everett Green called his daughter to ask why she sent his 83rd birthday present two months early. The “present” was a medium-sized box wrapped in shiny silver paper, with a delicate black ribbon tied in a bow, and there was no return address. Everett had been surprised to receive it; he lived in the Shady Springs Retirement Community, and he hardly ever heard from his only child. As usual, his daughter’s phone went to voicemail, and after leaving a slightly rambling message on her machine Everett decided to open the package; at this age, he reasoned, it was best not to wait too long for anything. He unwrapped the box carefully (wrapping paper isn’t cheap, and he hadn’t wrapped his neighbor George’s birthday gift yet) and eagerly looked inside. His excitement turned to horror as he found himself staring into the blank, lifeless eyes of his daughter’s severed head.
By the time emergency services arrived, Everett had already stopped breathing. The heart attack had happened so fast that he never even saw the note. It was hand-written in flawless calligraphy, although the traditional black color of the ink had been forgone in favor of a deep red.
He gave her life, he loved her with the warmth of a sunshine ray, But each and every passing year saw fewer visits paid. He never saw his little girl once he was old and gray, But in the end he came to find, there is a Better Way.
The forensics team confirmed what the detective already knew: the note was written in blood.
The next package came 6 days later. It was wrapped in the same silver paper, and the same black ribbon was tied lovingly into the same simple bow. The circumstances of Everett’s death had become the talk of the town, of course, and because Ms. Emma Brunswick made it her business to know everyone else's business she immediately connected the two events and called the police. Not putting it past Ms. Brunswick, a middle-aged divorcee known best for her love of gossip, to wrap up an old shoebox for attention, the officer rolled his eyes before knocking on her door. To his surprise the door swung inwards immediately, and he warily drew his gun before walking inside. The entry opened to a narrow hallway; at the very end there was a light coming through a doorway. He crept down the hall, acutely aware of the sound his breath made in the silence of the house. After thirty seconds that seemed much longer he paused at the doorway, then took a deep breath and pushed the slightly ajar door open.
Ms. Brunswick was sitting at her kitchen table with her back to the door, the shiny silver wrapping paper hastily discarded on the floor. The open box sat before her on the table, however it was impossible to discern the contents from across the room. He called her name softly, then again louder, but Ms. Brunswick gave no sign that she was aware of the officer's presence, and he could see now that her gaze was fixed on whatever was inside the box. The officer walked over and gently put his hand on her shoulder and she jumped, then looked at the officer with wide eyes and wordlessly handed him a piece of stationary. It was written in the same red calligraphy as the first note.
She thought she had his heart when they were married one spring day, But soon she realized she was wrong because he ran away. She longed to have his heart back, any price she'd gladly pay, But in the end she came to find, there is a Better Way.
Curiosity prevailed and he looked in the box. At first he wasn't sure what he was looking at, until he looked closer and realized that sitting in a nest of tissue paper was a human heart. Forensics reported that the heart had belonged to Ms. Emma Brunswick's ex-husband.
Things did not improve. The third package showed up only two days later on the doorstep of Janie Sommers, who had just started seeing a therapist after having her third miscarriage. The full bottle of Percocet in the box was accompanied by a shiny razor blade, and Janie's husband woke up the next morning to find his wife's lifeless body in the bathtub, a smile on her face and a deep cut down the inside of each arm.
The fourth came the next day, and little Lucy Anderson was horrified to find her best friend's pet rabbit, which she had been terribly jealous of, lying in the box with a broken neck.
Mayor Barlow eyed the doorway to his office nervously- he was expecting The Representative at exactly 12pm, and The Representative was always on time. He always had trouble remembering his visits with The Representative, and to his knowledge he had never been provided with a name for the polished executive who he met with on occasion. However, Barlow did not think to question the strangeness of the meetings, and blamed his forgetfulness on the almost-empty bottle of bourbon that resided in his desk drawer. It was the third one he had bought this week, but then again it had been a very difficult couple of weeks.
As soon as the big hand on the ornate grandfather clock in the corner struck 12, there was a polite knock on the door. The Representative walked in a moment later, and Mayor Barlow immediately felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. There was something about this man that never failed to unnerve him. Dressed in a charcoal-gray suit with his brown hair slicked back, the Representative smiled. It was not a comforting smile; in fact, the Mayor doubted that the man before him had ever comforted anything in his entire life.
The Representative placed his briefcase on Barlow’s mahogany desk, clicked the fasteners open, and retrieved a black folder embossed with a golden BW. He handed the folder to Barlow and then closed the briefcase, setting it on the chair provided for visitors to sit in. The Representative never sat in the chair. Barlow opened the folder with a certain amount of trepidation. Inside were several photographs.
“They say that a picture is worth a thousand words,” the man spoke quietly, with the barest hint of a British accent. He smiled again but it did not reach his eyes, which held a certain quality of darkness.
“I must say, I agree,” he continued. “Words are meaningless, senseless drivel in a world preoccupied with hollow promises and forgotten vows. A picture, however, captures a moment in time which is utterly and completely unique. Even if a picture is taken in the same setting, with the same subject matter, it can never truly be re-created, because the time of the original image has passed.”
Barlow took the first photograph out of the folder and felt his stomach drop. Despite the fact that the picture had clearly been taken late at night, his own distinctive, rotund silhouette was obvious, placing a carefully-wrapped silver package beside a mailbox. The logo for the Shady Springs Retirement Community was visible in the background.
“I didn’t do that, that wasn’t me!” The Mayor fearfully pulled another photograph from the folder and felt a wave of nausea come over him: this time it was a profile view of himself hunched over the body of a man he did not know, the camera’s flash glinting off the wicked-looking knife in the Mayor’s pudgy fingers. He frantically racked his brain, trying to remember something, anything, to explain his presence in the pictures. And suddenly, like a slap in the face, the memories assaulted him.
The inexplicable rage clouding his mind in the moment when he saw the woman, in the moment that he plunged the knife into her back. And again as he opened up the chest of the man, the metallic smell of blood filling the air. Then the memory of himself tying a perfect bow in a delicate, black ribbon, feeling nothing as he placed the package on the doorstep of Janie Sommers, hearing her sobbing through the door. The way the little rabbit struggled in his hands before he broke its neck, and the way it stopped struggling right away.
He gasped as tears gathered in his eyes and quickly overflowed, and he looked up at The Representative, who once again smiled hollowly. He found himself unable to speak, and instead of asking the questions that he barely knew the answers to, he only managed a single word.
“Why?”
The Representative smirked, this time making no effort to conceal his disdain for the fat little man behind the disproportionately large desk. “Mayor Barlow, it is painfully obvious that your weak, myopic mind could never grasp the enormity of what we are doing here. Suffice it to say that we still use for your…services, but leaving someone in your position of power with such secrets mulling in your brain is something of a ‘loose-end.’ In showing you the photographic evidence of your heinous, yet entirely necessary, crimes, I do not pretend to seek your understanding. We cannot force you to participate in the Process. However, there are certain things which need to be done, and with your permission we can accomplish our goals with very little conscious interaction on your account. Our goals will be accomplished with or without your help, however I ask you to remember through the pain you feel right now that there is--” here he paused, pointing towards the ceiling in a way that seemed almost reverent, then continued-- “a Better Way.”
The Mayor could barely see through the tears openly running down his face. “Please, make it go away, make this go away!” for he remembered now, that the meetings always concluded with The Representative offering a small white pill, and he knew that when he awoke from the dreamless sleep it induced, he would have no memory of the preceding events.
With a faint smile still playing on his lips, he produced a pill from his coat pocket, and as Barlow grabbed it from his hand with what could only be described as desperation The Representative murmured “The Time is nigh.”
The Representative concludes his narrative, clearly pleased with the story he had just imparted to me. His features had remained stoic throughout, but I could tell that he had been scrutinizing my reactions, probing for any undesirable response. I could also tell that he was not disappointed.
“So you see, the ones we use do not truly want to resist. It is a basic, human instinct to follow, dating back to neolithic times as a means to survival. People always claim to have a ‘moral compass,’ but this is a lie that they have taught themselves to believe. It is clear to the more... enlightened of our species, that people will always choose to align with what feels good, as opposed to what ‘feels right.’”
I nod, feeling the corners of my mouth pull upwards into a satisfied smirk. It is true, what The Representative says, and I know it. The weak, pitiful creatures that cling to their notions of right and wrong are so very deluded in their self-righteousness. We know better. We were born superior, and the “sacrifice” of the unworthy is not only necessary, but something to be celebrated. Their demise will ultimately serve a secondary purpose: we will purge the world of the inferior.
The Representative turns to the polished wooden box on the table, carefully lifting the lid. Resting on the crimson velvet of the interior is a sleek, silver dagger. The handle is made of what looks like ivory, intricate symbols depicted in polished relief -- I know that it was carved painstakingly from the sternum of my mentor’s first kill, each symbol representative of his subsequent triumphs in the name of the Better Way. He picks it up, lovingly caressing the blade before looking back at me. “This is your chance, initiate. Your chance to become an official member of something so much larger than any one of us. Do you accept the blessing of our organization?”
Barely able to contain my eagerness, I reply with the phrase that I have practiced so many, many times since beginning my journey. “I humbly accept, and willingly vow to carry out the will of the cause I serve, now and for the rest of my life.”
My mentor bows his head, holding the dagger out with both hands. I grasp the bone handle and take the gift, before turning to the sorry excuse for a human being that The Representative has prepared for me. His small eyes dart around fearfully, the sweat beading on his brow and beginning to drip down his fat face. The Representative was right, Mayor Barlow is pathetic. He tries to scream but is stymied by the duct tape wrapped around his head and covering his mouth. His sausage-like fingers are beginning to turn purple as he struggles against the ropes binding his hands, and I imagine that his feet, likewise bound, are also losing circulation inside his shiny black oxfords. I can’t suppress a shark-like grin from spreading across my face as I raise the dagger, never breaking eye-contact as I bring it back down and plunge it straight into his heart. His eyes widen, and I realize that I feel more alive than I ever have as I watch the life leave his body. Withdrawing the dagger, I stab it into his bloody chest again, this time methodically cutting away the flesh over the sternum. The dagger is sharp enough that it makes short work of the bone and sinew in my way, and after the last crack separates my prize from the rest of Barlow’s rib cage I reach into his ruined chest cavity triumphantly. I remove what will become the handle for an intricately-carved dagger, which I will present to my own protege when the time comes. Holding the bone in my left hand, I turn back to face my mentor-- now my equal-- and raise my right index finger in the customary salute. The Representative locks eyes with me, mimicking my gesture.
“There is a Better Way,” he says, and for the first time I see a flicker of life in his steely, gray eyes.
“The Time is nigh,” I reply, aware that indeed, the Time grows ever closer, and aware of the part that I will soon play in its fruition.
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