Eleven.

The computer beeped again. It was now pinging six times per minute. Whoever was sending these messages was getting impatient. I either could respond back or try making out of this lab alive.

And the choice had never been easier.

The running joke at the lab was that, even at these sub-zero temperatures, the coldest thing around here was my heart. Of course, they had no idea I knew of any of this – they would never say it to my face – but as Director, it was my job to know every single thing that went on in my premises. The tales of my cunning ruthlessness were etched onto the consciousness of every single person here.

And to me, there was no bigger compliment.

Beep-beep-beep.

Fresh from the academy, working here as a lowly lab technician, it wasn’t easy for me to make it big here. But what I lacked in talent or contacts, I made up for in my abilities to deceive and cheat, to gain someone’s implicit trust and to shatter it for my own benefit.

Beep-beep-beep.

And so began my ascent, from lab tech to operations manager, chief scientist to Program Director; a meteoric rise marked only by a trail of knives sticking out of backs. This was common knowledge, of course: there were only so many executives who could have unfortunate accidents before people put two and two together. Bear attacks on golf courses were rare, but if I wanted your seat, you best believe the odds weren’t in your favour.

Beep-beep-beep.

The torrent of incoming messages did not deter me from suiting up to leave. As the Director, I had access to certain privileges – as I very well should – and these messages were almost certainly people clamouring for help after the unexplained explosions earlier.

Me? Help them? I had found no reason to form any attachment to the people here, and neither did they. But now I had something they wanted: this raw power I had at my disposal, accrued over so many years with no support, no influence, only through my own efforts.

It was a man-eat-man world, and I was finally on top of the food chain. I owed no one but myself. I intended to help no one but myself.

Beep-beep-beep.

I zipped up my thermal jacket and took one last look at my office – a mausoleum to every life I had wrecked on my way to inhabiting it – as I took my private elevator to the helipad, where a helicopter was waiting to whisk me out of there.

As an uncharacteristic draught of hot air hit my face, any semblances of guilt left with me slowly faded away.

If a warm wind in the Arctic wasn’t proof of the Gods’ blessing, what else could it be?

-----

EMERGENCY BROADCAST (78) – MELTDOWN IN REACTOR. LETHAL RADIATION LEVELS.  ABOVE GROUND VENTURE FATAL. RETREAT TO BUNKER.

Ten.

I saw you stand at the altar, in that wispy white dress, and I couldn't help but think:

I was the luckiest man in the universe.

A hundred and twenty six pairs of eyes, all gleamed at you in their envious, vivacious stares, and yet only one among those many could call you theirs: me.

The steps towards you came effortlessly now, unlike all the times I played this scenario out in my mind: no hesitation, no cold feet, no second thoughts, just the image of you in my mind, your beautiful visage keeping all of my qualms at bay.

I will admit, even putting my tux on this morning, I couldn't help but wonder whether all this was right, whether I'd be forcing my love onto you by taking things this quickly.

But then there you were, with your hazel eyes and cheeky smile, and you reminded me of all those little things that had made me fall for you from so far away:

The way you'd hum showtunes while doing the dishes. You putting your left shoe on before your right, going so far as to take it off if it was the right one first.  The way you sang in your sleep, sometimes even singing whole verses before coming to. The way you'd hold back a smile in the midst of an argument, yet let the corner of your mouth twitch to show that you had forgiven. How you'd let the waterworks flow while watching your soaps, but deny crying every single time. The way your eyes glinted when you shared a hearty laugh with your fiance. The way you'd hug his arm on walks, when other couples were content with holding hands. The way you'd blush when you kissed him, like every time was the first.

The polaroids that adorned several walls of my house - our house, soon -  proved an unspeaking testament to my love, of how I deserved you more than anyone else. Shots of you in every conceivable pose - sitting amidst a pile of letters, standing over a heap of laundry, mouth agape as you try to stifle a yawn, shirt over your arms while you changed, your caramel skin bared as you showered, everything - kept me focused, kept me determined .

I am doing this.


My pace quickened, two steps at time. Four. Eight. Running straight towards you, the pistol slapping against my thigh with every step.



In and out.

One quick dash, one little tackle, and I'll have swept you off your feet and carried out.

Literally.

In and out.

Nine.

"What were the last words you spoke to your father?"

The sight of the casket in front of me had done nothing, but this question put to me by one of the many people garbed in black shocked me out of my trance.

I didn't want to remember, but I felt like I owed the man this at the very least.

He'd come to the door to see me off, like always. He knew I hated it, but that didn't stop him.

It never did.

"Careful, son."
"You don't have to tell me, dad."
"I know, but I just want you to be safe."
"I know, dad."
"The roads can be real treacherous at ti-..."
"Dad, I think I'd prefer a car accident if it meant not having you drone on and treat me like a five year old."


Witnesses say that the car had been just exiting a tunnel when a drunk driver, who'd been snaking in and out of traffic for about a quarter mile, cut the wrong way onto the intersection and T-boned it.

Witnesses say that both cars were launched into the air, tumbling several times before landing on the sidewalk with a sense of perverse finality.

Witnesses say that the body - this body, the one that now lay in this closed casket in front of me- was flung out mid-flip, and dragged across the freeway before it came to a standstill.


And the last words my father would ever hear from me had been how a car accident would have been more preferable to his nagging.

Death was not without a sense of irony.

Perhaps my face had betrayed some emotions that I didn't dare share with my words, but he gave my shoulder a slight squeeze, as if to let me know it was all right, that it wasn't my fault, that everything was going to be okay.

He was wrong, of course.

Another of the men in black stepped towards me.

"They're taking the body away now. I think you should leave."

I wanted to take one last look into the casket, at those brown eyes, that sandy brown hair, all those little things I'd been glad to have inherited from my father, but I knew the time for that had long gone on.

Instead, I turned around and began walking.

And stopped.

The scene ahead reminded me too much of the tunnel that had brought me here: the pitch black darkness with the distant light reminded me too much of that tunnel on the freeway.

But there was that hand on my shoulder again.

"There is no pain there, no suffering. Trust me."

And so I walked, hesitant, wavering in my resolve.

But as I reached the light, all my fears vanished.

And as I floated upwards into nothingness, I couldn't help but take one last at the casket that held my mangled remains, and the father that cried over it.

Eight.

When you have it, it's dumped in a corner, a trophy to be admired, but only from a distance. You do pick it up, but only to ponder on the various cracks and crevasses that line its surface, the imperfections reaching across the line to slap you in the face. It may be a trophy, but its as close to a participation medal as there is. And then you lose it. You start to feel the raw ache of loneliness, the pangs of solitude, totally undeserved. You remember the cracks as untouched valleys, pristine in their beauty, the trophy as having had great sentimental value. You want it back, and you want it back bad. And when you do find it, back it goes into the corner. You tell yourself that it was easy to find, that losing it again wouldn't be that bad anymore, that it wasn't worth the search anyways. The valleys are only endless pits to fall through now, to get lost in interminably. Mankind only wants what it cannot have. Idiots.