bag fell to the ground and all his junk started spilling out. I saw Graceâs body stiffen for a second, with a kind of spasm at the corner of his mouth, and right away he got up to help. He kneeled down on the sidewalk, gathering up the newspapers and the empty cans, and putting them back in the bag. The sight stayed fixed on him. His face was mine now. The red spot of the sight was floating on the middle of his forehead like a fluorescent Indian caste mark. That face was mine, and when he smiled at the old man, it glowed. Like the paintings of the saints on church walls.
I stopped looking through the sights, and took a good look at my finger. It was hovering over the trigger guard. Straight out, almost frozen. It wasnât going to go through with it. No point in fooling myself. It simply wasnât going to. I thumbed on the safety, and eased back the bolt. The bullet slid from the chamber.
I headed down toward the café with my gun in its case. It wasnât a gun anymore really, just five harmless parts. I sat down at Graceâs table, facing him, and ordered a coffee. He recognized me at once. Last time he saw me, I was an eleven-year-old kid, but he had no trouble remembering. Even remembered my name. I put the envelope with the money on the table, and told him that someone had hired me to kill him. I tried to play it cool, to pretend like Iâd never even considered going through with it. Grace smiled and said that he knew. That he was the one whoâd sent the money in the envelope, that he wanted to die. Iâve got to admit his answer caught me off guard. I stammered. Asked why. Did he have some malignant disease? âA disease?â he laughed. âGuess you could say that.â There was that little spasm again at the corner of his mouth, the one Iâd seen through the window, and he started to talk: âEver since I was a kid Iâve had this disease. The symptoms were clear, but nobody ever tried treating it. Iâd give my toys to the other kids. I never lied. I never stole. I was never even tempted to hit back in school fights. I was always sure to turn the other cheek. My compulsive good-heartedness just got worse over the years, but nobody was willing to do anything about it. If, say, Iâd been compulsively bad, theyâdhave taken me to a shrink or something right away. Theyâd have tried to stop it. But when youâre good? It suits people in our society to keep getting what they need, in return for a shriek of delight and a few compliments. And I just kept getting worse. Itâs reached the point where I canât even eat without stopping after every bite to find someone whoâs hungrier to finish my meal. And at night, I canât fall asleep. How can a person even consider sleeping when you live in New York, and sixty feet away from your house people are shivering on a park bench?â
The spasm was back at the corner of his mouth, and his whole body shook. âI canât go on this way, with no sleep, no food, no love. Who has time for love when thereâs so much misery around? Itâs a nightmare. Try to see it from my point of view. I never asked to be this way. Itâs like a dybbuk. Except that instead of a dybbuk, your body is possessed by an angel. Damn it. If it were a devil, someone would have tried to finish me off a long time ago. But this?â Grace gave a short sigh and closed his eyes. âListen,â he went on. âAll this money, take it. Go find yourself a position on some balcony or rooftop, and get it over with. I canât do it on my own, after all. And it gets harder every day. Even just sending you the money, having this conversation.â He mopped his forehead. âItâs hard. Very hard on me. Iâm not sure Iâll have what it takes to do it again. Please, just pick a spot up on one of the rooftops and do it. Iâm begging you.â I looked at him. At his tormented face. Like Jesus
Rebecca Hamilton, Conner Kressley