When I was a kid, the villains in my stories were always the ones who fought for immortality. The brain of a ten year old doesn't stop to question such matters. All I knew was that the man in a black cloak and an angry stare was bad.
I was taught to believe that the man brave enough to fight for the most valuable of things was bad.
But what if it wasn't the villain's fault, but of those who created him? Every day, I walk down the street, and look around, and ask my self two questions, and two question only: how many of those around me want to live forever? All of them. Even the old woman a step away from death.
But who'd fight for such a cause?
And I guess, that makes me the villain of this story. I wouldn't argue with you; for I would do anything to stay in this life. But think of it as this; maybe the reason some won't fight for life is because they haven't tasted how glorious one can be. They bury themselves under work and bills, marriage and responsibility, until they are as good as dead. The villain here, my friend, is the one who chooses to let go of such things, and get addicted to the drug that is life.
When the Death Clock was first launched, no one dared activate it. The guards had put it in the City Square, waiting for the first person to press the button. The idea of a clock that told you how many days, hours, and minutes you had left were something out of a nightmare for some.
Not for me.
I waited for the right time, when the workers were long asleep and the scoundrels were yet to come out of their caves. I pressed the golden button, and the clock came alive. It made no noise, for which I was thankful. The first thing I noticed was my name at the top. The second, was how many days I had left.
235 days, 6 hours, and 32 minutes.
If there is one thing worse that facing death, it is waiting for it. I wasted days of what precious time I had left sulking on my inevitable fate.
Now, with 0 days, and 24 hours left, I regret wasting such valuable time. Because now, I know my fate is not inevitable after all.
The deal was easy. It was like someone grab you by the collar and throwing you out of a room. Before your ass would meet the hard curb, you say the only words that would come to mind, “wait! Don't throw me!”. To which the grabber would say, “give me one good reason not to.”
It was exactly what the government was doing. Except the room was life, and the curb was a godforsaken grave. In order to stay in the room, you'd have to give them a reason. An invention, an extraordinary idea. Do that, and you are granted a free ticket to life.
Unfortunately, while born with the merit of being a self-acknowledged villain, I am no inventor.
Fortunately, Rob Murchison is.
Calling him a good looking man would be vain, for him and I could stand on either side of a glass and make it a mirror. I hadn't talked to Rob in.. ever, actually. I doubted he knew more of my existence than I knew of his.
I like to think that when we were in the womb of whoever woman we came from, he took all the intelligence a mother could give her child, while I took all the practicality.
It saddens me really, that one so identical to me could be so stupid.
He'd been granted a vaccine shot 321 days ago. Some like to call it the life elixir, but that just feels like something out of a child's book. A vaccine is no magical liquid, it's an injection that makes sure your heart keeps beating even if it was torn apart by a hungry bear.
And my idiot brother waited for 321 days, and if it weren't for me, he would wait forever. Like many others, he must feel like immortality is something he is not entitled to.
“Rob Murchison?” the nurse calls, and I stand up.
My brother isn't addicted to life; I am.
My brother isn't a villain; I am.