Justice
Where did the world go wrong? You wonder, staring at your half bloodied wedding ring on your desk. The bright red of the blood contrasts against the polished desk. The blood drops have created a mess in the otherwise immaculately kept study. Your blood stained hands touch the revolver you keep taped to the bottom of your desk. You think back to simpler times; back in college when you were only worried about tests and papers. Back then you didn't have to worry about real world problems. You thought you knew what you were doing too, but now you realize how wrong you were. There's a knock at the door.
"Mind if I come in?" You know it's your good friend Mike, the head of the local police department. Your hand doesn't leave the gun though. You know you won't need the gun but the cold metal is keeping you grounded.
"Please, enter," you say. Mike walks in with a grim look on his face. The frown he's wearing brings out lines on his pale, aged face. His black police uniform is crisp even though his shoulders are sagging slightly. He looks hesitant to speak. "Tell me, Mike. All of it."
"The coroner estimates that Eleanor has been dead for about four hours. So that puts the time of death at around seven this evening." Mike says. He pauses for a moment to eye you critically. You know he is studying your features trying to understand where you are emotionally. But you have an excellent poker face that gives away nothing. "The injuries appear self-inflicted with no sign of a struggle anywhere. Along with the suicide note we strongly suspect suicide."
"Thank you," you say. Mike is still looking at you critically.
"Will, there was nothing you could do to…" He trails off, unsure of what to say to comfort you. His eyes look away from you, intently studying the plush, red carpet.
"I take it I'm not a suspect." It was a statement not a question. You know he wouldn't share that much information with you if you were.
"No, you were at the UN up until a few hours ago and even with no traffic you couldn't have gotten home before eight thirty." How quickly your world has changed when only a few hours ago you weren't aware of your crimes. This room, with all its awards, photos, and certificates used to mean something. Now it's all just meaningless trash. Even the plant in the corner of the room sags with despair knowing what you have done. "You've seen the suicide note?"
You reply with an affirmative. He sighs and runs a hand through his greying hair. You continue saying, "I'll be in here if you need me."
"Of course," he says. He walks to the door and pauses for a moment looking back at you. "Are you going to be ok?"
You give him a wry smile and say, "My odds are looking to be around 50-50."
"I'll be here when the shock wears off. No one will bother you until then." He walks out of the room to monitor the investigation. You know he trusts you after the years of working together, after all the good things you've done. You pull the revolver from its hiding place. You take the tape off of the gun and inspect it for a moment. Are you sure you want to go through with this?
You stop for a moment taking a look around your study. After all there's half a chance it's the last time you'll ever see. The left wall is full of awards and honors. Large words standing proudly; pronouncing how great of a person you are and how much you have done for the world at large. There are words of thanks, of gratitude, and of congratulations all claiming that you are a great man with strong morals and an example for everyone to follow. But you know now that it's all a lie. How will the world look at you after the crime you've committed? However you want them to, of course.
Your eyes continue around the room. Your eyes focus intently at the walls and away from the photo that's face down in the middle of your desk. Your hands fiddle with the gun nervously as you are once again reminded of your crime, your murder. You force you thoughts once again to your study and everything in it. Your college degree stands prominently next to your Noble Peace prize on the wall across form you. As an international relations major in college you always wanted a Noble Peace prize but now it's just a meaningless certificate, like all the rest of them.
Below the two prominent certificates are a series of photos sitting on an expensive oak dresser. They are neatly arranged left to right from the oldest to newest. All of them are turned at an angle so each one is slightly covering the older photo behind it. Your college graduation. You and friends at civil rights protest in Africa. A news photo of you helping hostages out of a bank in New York with the word "negotiator" boldly written on your shirt. You standing between the leaders of Israel and Palestine shaking hands after the two years of constant peace you negotiated. The photos go on with almost thirty years worth of accomplishments. Accomplishments you only achieved through your charisma and a special talent.
In college your friends would joke that you could convince anyone to do anything at any time. How right they were. It's helped you so much over the years as a negotiator. Whether it was a group of armed robbers, religious zealots, or world politicians you would get a peaceful resolution. That's why you know that even if you explain in vast detail your crime to any authority when it came time for a judge, jury, or anyone else to decide they would pick the outcome you want. Innocent or Guilty. It would be your choice. Where is the justice in that? The cool metal of the gun reminds you of the one thing you can't influence though. Raw chance. You know you have as much influence over chance as everyone else. It makes you powerless.
With a practiced flick of your wrist the cylinder of the revolver comes out with ease showing the six bullets. The cold metal of the bullets are not affected by your warm hand while you remove them. The impassive shells feel heavy in your hands. The blood of your victim soaks into them as they judge your guilt. You set three of the six bullets on the table. They think you are innocent and the events were out of your control.
The first bullet of the other three slides into the cylinder. You should have noticed Eleanor's erratic mood swings. She is your wife. If someone strongly disagrees with what you are forcing them to do then they will start expressing strong mood swings. If you were around more often instead of solving the world's problems you might have noticed.
You skip the next slot in the cylinder. Would she have been able to fight your influence if you hadn't been away? She was your world and you would have done anything for her. She was a strong willed woman that loved you.
You insert the second bullet. You have arguably the strongest power in the world. You could easily raise armies and have them commit atrocities that make Hitler's Third Reich look like child's play. Do you honestly expect one woman, one person, to be able to ignore your influence for a decade and a half?
Another empty slot. But look what you've done with this power. You've saved lives, helped negotiate peace, and fought for equality. Your previous actions speak towards your good intentions. You have single handedly improved the world more than any other person of this generation.
The final bullet enters the cylinder eagerly. This one is the bloodiest of them all. What does it matter what else you have done? This isn't about your other actions. This is about your wife, the woman who you killed, who you caused to have a civil war of emotion, who you enslaved. Her blood is on your hands, murderer.
Your thumb trails over the last empty space that separates the executioners. You made a mistake. Forgive yourself.
You spin the cylinder and listen to the soft clicking noise it makes as it turns. You close your eyes thoughts of Guilt and Innocence spin in your head. Click. Click. Click. Innocent. Click. Guilty. Click. Innocent. Guilty. Innocent. Guilty. On and on it goes. Until you flick your wrist and the chamber flips into the frame of the gun. With your eyes shut you cock the hammer and put the revolver to your head.
Your eyes open as you contemplate the room one last time. The awards and degrees mean nothing. The wealth of your home means nothing. All that matters is the gun at your head and whether or not there is a bullet in the barrel. Whether or not you are guilty or innocent.
Breathe in…
Breathe out…
Relax…
It's out of your hands now. Leave the choice to destiny; to fate; to chance. Let them be Judge, Jury, and if necessary Executioner.
Breathe in…
Breathe out…
Pull the trigger.
I originally wrote this story to be about manipulation and what society would consider an 'okay' amount of manipulation. But the story sort of took a life of its own. I feel like it turned into a story about justice and how a person needs to be accountable for their actions. That as individuals we need to take more accountability for the consequences, intended or not, of our actions. I'm a little nervous that the beginning doesn't have enough tension and that it's unclear to the reader. The few people I had proof read it said it mostly made sense and I've added a lot of detail to try to make things as clear as possible without giving too much away in the beginning.
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