Alben's Curse

Through the bulletproof glass, Simon stared at the strange man. His own reflection was faint, superimposed over the stranger. As if he was already part of Simon, and the lottery was just a formality.

“Ladies! Gentlemen! To your seats! We’ll begin shortly!”

Conversations simmered and eventually died as various men and women found seats. Simon den Khopquin knew no one in the abandoned warehouse. For the best. When I win, it’s fewer people who might come after me.

“In total, there are seventy-seven of you.” Simon cast sidelong glances through the audience. The total looked greater. “Of you, there are six hundred and thirty-one tickets.”

Stifling a curse, Simon shifted in his seat. He knew multiple lottery tickets could be purchased, but so many? That’s over twelve million! Why’s a dead guy need that much?

At the forefront of the makeshift viewing area, the strange man behind the glass shifted from foot to foot. Through his shady contact, Simon learned that the lottery would result in a winner receiving a rare, supernatural power. Needing proof, Simon had witnessed the strange man’s ability: he transformed whatever he stepped on into glass.

Suddenly, a red dot appeared on the gifted man’s chest. A bang sounded. It drew gasps, but Simon was used to such annoyances. He’d witnessed many assassinations, having arranged most.

With unrivaled swiftness, the origin of the bullet was deduced and the would-be cheater executed in under ten seconds. The woman to his left looked ill.

“People! Please! Mr. Alben will only give his life for the winner! That person will get his power. You were all thoroughly briefed.”

Simon, looking cool, thought how ignorant people could be when it came to simple rules. And how, if he himself couldn’t find a way to cheat, no one could.

“Seeing as there’s now seventy-six of you, I guess everyone likes their odds better. But you’re not here for me. You’re all here for one reason: power. On its face, Mr. Alben’s remarkable gift is not likely to be appreciated, but it has remarkable potential.”

As the speaker began rambling terribly droll ideas, Simon thought to himself: Screw ‘em all. They just want something that’s too rare to pass up, same as me. No matter how impractical

Alben sat down inside his bulletproof cell; his makeshift tomb, soon enough.

The speaker motioned toward somewhere behind Simon and several spotlights activated. They revealed that the entire back end of the warehouse was filled with pegboards. On them were hundreds of tagged, identical knives. Simon recognized them as the knives that were involved in the bizarre ceremony before viewing of Alben had been allowed. One of them belonged to him: it had a drop of his blood smeared into the hilt.

“Without further adieu! Mr. Alben, if you will!”

As determination set his jaw, Alben reached into a large aquarium that held slips of paper inside his glass cell. Simon appreciated this simplistic lottery; computers could be hacked.

Drawing one piece out, he slipped it through a slot in the glass. It was then Simon realized there was no door to the large glass box. Alben had had it either built or placed around him. There was no escaping.

“Mr. Alben has drawn number three two one.”

Simon’s heart leapt. He knew that was his number, but he didn’t want to express anything. There were people in the audience willing to kill Alben for his rare gift, as they’d been told that’s how it transfers. If they knew he’d won, he was dead. But as the speaker walked to the pegboard and picked up one of the daggers with a gloved hand, Simon began to realize that he was leaving with exactly what he came here for.

He was going to have the power in his very soles.

His pulse raced as the dagger with his memorable number was theatrically displayed. The speaker then pushed the thin dagger through the same slot that Alben had passed the paper, and Simon, stunned, discovered that he was going to be made to witness a suicide.

“If you’ve sensitive eyes, I suggest you turn away, folks. Mr. Alben doesn’t coagulate well.”

The sense of it was suddenly clear: spectators might’ve arisen over the speaker slaying Alben and possibly retrieving the coveted power. And the winner couldn’t slay the gifted man because that would announce the inheritor to all.

Simon wished that another format for this lottery has been devised. Maybe through webcams or snail mail. But he knew it wouldn’t have worked. If he hadn’t won, he’d have blamed foul play. As it was, Simon wished he’d lost. He wasn't prepared.

Glancing at his crossed leg, down to his foot, Simon wondered when the power would transfer, when he'd turn things to glass with his feet. He looked back as Alben made his first cuts. There was no hesitation, no remorse. He was quick and made deep, wince-inducing gashes. Someone vomited.

Simon felt lightheaded. How much time did he have? If he left, would they know it was because he didn’t want anyone seeing his socks turn to glass, or because he couldn’t stand watching someone die?

When Alben was done, he stood in his cell, swaying, and looked out into the crowd. With the spotlights keeping the staging area lit, it was any wonder he could see the crowd, but his wandering eyes landed on Simon. Even from this distance, the man looked haunted, thankful.

He fell to his knees, began laughing, and crumpled under his weigh. Blood spattered and Simon felt something odd in his feet. It focused his attention, but he didn’t dare move. Everyone was still. They weren’t watching Alben anymore. The audience was watching itself.

Simon didn’t know when he’d be able to leave, but he did feel his sock bottoms transform. He worried that the entire sock would change, but it didn’t. He could sit for a while with his power, his prize. Alben’s curse.

Simon den Khopquin had something no one else did. Now he just had to live with it, or die because of it.

It’s not impractical at all…



Word Count: 1,022