Schism
S.K. Millz
Before you condemn me, before you judge me, take a moment to step back and evaluate my position, my way of life, that of my family and friends.
Think of them if it helps; not of me. Push me, my profession, everything that I embody, as far out of your mind as possible. Remove me from the picture. Hide me so far away that it would seem as if I shared no connection with them whatsoever.
I implore you. Before you step outside this cell, before you sentence me to death, for whatever ridiculous crime I've committed—think of them.
My sister's ten now; going on eleven. Can you see her? being a kid? plashing around in warm river water a thousand miles from here? plucking budded dandelions along the shoreline? enjoying life?
Of course you can't.
Little Sis doesn't live anywhere near a river. In fact, I honestly don't know if she's ever seen or even heard of one.
My family lives about as far from the wilderness as you could envision.
My family lives in the Barrios. The ashen, crumbling wasteland just a mile south of the casinos. (A supposedly "freed" land, according to the mapmakers.) Bombed-out, dilapidated, demilitarized, ruled by drug kingpins, procurers and dealmakers. The only neighborhood on Mobius where fledgling assassins take out print ads in the daily news.
Now picture my little sister in the midst of all this.
Imagine being targeted by pimps at the age of eight. Imagine witnessing a man's head come apart right in front of your eyes before you're even old enough to think for yourself, let alone comprehend something so inordinate. Imagine growing up ensconced in that environment, where nothing is promised, nothing is guaranteed. Imagine, simply, not knowing of any other way, resigning yourself to hopelessness, having every escape route, every possible way out, diverted, rerouted or cut off entirely by the upper class.
Money's tight these days. Before home school, the adults play cards and share a cigarette for breakfast; in the other room, the kids go hungry, hypnotized by the faded, flickering images dancing across the television set.
Gunfire outside. Screeching tires. Puddles. Cracked windowpanes where the bullets cut through. Blood in the alleyway. Red-eyed pigeons cooing softly on the pavement.
Last year, an old friend of mine lost his job and couldn't afford to pay his rent. Day and night he used to evade his shriveled old landlady, fearing her, creeping downstairs in bare feet so that the floorboards wouldn't squeak when he left each morning to look for work.
He started pawning everything he owned. Valuables, personal items, family heirlooms. Usually for cheap, or cheaper than that.
The money was weak, short-lived, and he knew that it could only sustain him for so long. Eventually he came to his senses.
He killed the pawnbroker. Bashed her skull in with the blunt side of an axe. Her sister, too. Robbed them both, paid his rent and shut himself away. Forever.
That was the last I heard of him.
I didn't want to end up like that: a broken shell, a victim of society. Not for me. I wanted to make something of myself; a name that people might remember, so that all the right people might remember me for all the right reasons. I wanted to escape, to steal from the rich and give to the poor, as contrived as that may sound.
It takes a man to give. A real man. Admittedly, I was never very skilled at it.
Not everything worked out the way it was supposed to. I stood in your way more times than I probably should have, put a damper on your private vendetta, your guerrilla war against the Doctor. It wasn't always intentional, but it was always for the money. Always.
Always for the money.
I hear you've got an Emerald stashed away somewhere in this Village. That's what my employers tell me. It's what they're after—some troupe of tough guys from Angel Island. They claim it's theirs to begin with. Either way, it's none of my business. I was only supposed to return it to them, promptly.
Fifty-five hundred credits.
Naturally, the reward would've gone towards bailing my kid sister out of Hell. But then again, that's none of your business. Is it? Freedom Fighter?
Just think of her, would you?
Today you set the date for my execution. A week from now you'll follow through.
You'll wake me up early in the morning, force feed me my last meal, throw me in handcuffs, march me up that long, dark staircase into the beating sun and proudly, like the hero that you rightfully are, put me on display for every commoner in the Village to mock.
And you'll allow it.
By the time you put the cold barrel of that gun to the back of my neck, I'll have been doused with spit and pelted with everything from rocks to rotten vegetables. By then, I'll have nearly lost all consciousness. Don't worry. When you finally work up the nerve to pull the trigger and watch my body crumple to the floor like a wet rag, at least it will be a surprise to both of us.
Just do me a favor.
As they cart my body away, wrapped in plastic, dead, no longer a threat to you, your people or your cause—just think of her.
Would you?
Just think of her.
Simon Miller – 2008