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.
---
Credits
