Photo by Askar Abayev on pexels.
Writing inspired by the following SWC prompts:
What are you willing to sacrifice?
If You Had To Kill Someone: Post-Apocalyptic Version
by Franziska Singer
“If you had to kill someone.” she said and stirred her drink absentmindedly, letting her gaze wander around the people in the garden and the huge tent behind me.
“If I had to … unalive someone? But why,” I said laughing.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Well, I think I’d rather have a good reason for committing a second tier crime,” I said as I took off my right shoe and rubbed my bunion. I wasn’t made for wearing strappy sandals for hours at a time anymore, just because someone decided they had to celebrate the outcome of them turkey basting each other some nine or ten months ago.
“Okay okay okay,’ she said. “You have to, because if you do then… cancer will forever be cured, or Trutlep-16, or gender reveal parties will forever be a thing of the past. And unexpected growth of additional limbs and toes. That sort of thing.” She smirked with a nod in the direction of my right foot. ”But only…”
“…only if I do that. Alright. Let me think. Do I have to know this person? Do I have special abilities? Can I say, like, Putin has to D.!.E? I’ll unalive him with the lasers I shoot from my eyes?”
“No.” She looked at me in a way that was almost unrecognizable. It was making me uncomfortable. “You have to do it yourself. It’s personal. Someone from your life.”
I swallowed and looked at the ice cubes in the cup in my hand that were slowly melting, watering my drink down more and more every second in the sticky October heat. “I see. Gosh, this is hard. But probably Jeremy. It would be like, this effing piece of shit had it coming, after what he did to me. It’s been three years, but that’s my spontaneous pick.” I shrugged my shoulders. “And you? What are you willing to sacrifice for the common good? Or rather, who?”
“Peter,” she huffed.
“Peter? Peter who?”
“Hunting coach Peter. Our old teacher, Peter. Peter the Pig, Peter.”
At that exact moment, the neon clouds burst. I grabbed my shoes, and we ran over to the marquee, to secure a dry spot among the dozens of other guests. The roof just above us had a little hole, and acid rain dripped down between us. I resisted the urge to let it burn off my new appendage. Trutlep-16 was no joke.
“Before she had to leave, my aunt had a saying. It’s the only thing I have of her,” she said with a dramatic look on her face and cleared her throat. “ ‘So what if I don’t know what “apocalypse” means. It’s not like it’s the end of the world.’ ”
We looked at each other and burst out laughing at that old joke. The uncomfortable tension was over, Rebecca was back to being her old giddy self. I would never have guessed that I’d think about this conversation ever again. Until my implant projected the news this morning: “Revered hunter, he/him, found unalive. No suspects.”