Life Isn't Fair

WARNING: This piece contains some sexual references, and may offend some readers.


I stared at the small notice in the obituary column. ‘Billy Marks. 30 July 1977 - 1 August 2009. Died in tragic car accident.’
         “Accident, my ass.” I muttered. “It was deliberate.” I scrunched up the newspaper, and threw  it against the brick wall. I was sitting, back against a wall, in a small dark alleyway. My only light came from a street light, a couple metres from me.
         I sighed, and looked down at a picture in my hand. It was of my family, the one I would never see again. I smiled at it, sadly. Mother was in her wheelchair, father posed behind it. I stood beside her, my brown hair shining in the sun. Emily and George, my siblings, stood on the other side of mother. It was taken a few years ago, but we all still looked the same physically. George is 34, two years older than myself. Emily is five years younger than me. I sighed once more. How could my life have changed so much in  24 hours? Would I ever see my family again? I hoped so.
         A shadow took me from my thoughts. A large, bulky man stood facing me, blocking out the light from the street light. I swallowed hard, standing. I looked at death, and he looked at me.
         “Hello, Mr Marks.” Death said simply, as he pulled out a gun.

***

         Life isn’t fair. I was always the writer in the family. The scribe. I wrote hundreds of short stories, poems, articles for the school newspaper, and even a couple of novel, before I was twenty. I wrote in just about every genre, from romance and fantasy, to adventure and mystery. Even erotica. But what happened? My sister, Emily, comes along when she’s fourteen, still a kid, and writes a bestseller novel. Her first go. Now, she’s known as the writer. The scribe. Me? I’m the accountant. The accountant who works a nine to five day in a small office cubicle, for peanuts. Even George, the deadbeat of the family, makes more than me, and he sat on welfare payments for three years. Like I said, life isn’t fair. Now I’m the deadbeat. I don’t even get mail.
         I drove my rickety bomb of a car up the driveway, stopping at the mailbox to retrieve the mail. There was nothing. Just five freaking bills. It was my birthday two days ago. Have I gotten any cards? Any presents? No. Even Emily, whose made over a million dollars through her novel Love at Last Sight can’t even spare five bucks for a card.
         I got back in the car, and resumed driving up to the garage. I pulled up, and got out, slamming the creaky door.
         I live alone, which is nice sometimes, but it also means there’s none to share the bills with. How did I end up living in a house all to myself? Good story to that. Last year, on July 30 - yes, my 31st birthday - I found myself working late for Andrew Ricks. My boss. It’s 10pm, and I finally decide, stuff it. It’s my birthday, and I’m not working to midnight. I drive home, and what do I see? A car. Sitting in the driveway. And it looks familiar. I slip in the dark house silently, and creep up the stairs. All the lights are out. I creep past the babies room, yes, Kathryn’s three months pregnant, and up to my bedroom, which I shared with my wife, Kathryn. The lights are on. I open the door, and what do I see? Kathryn, on the bed, with Andrew on top of her.
         To cut a long story short, Kathryn pleaded with the judge, who I suspect she was shagging too, that she didn’t want the house. Said it reminded her too much of me. So I got the house, and that’s about it. Kathryn got everything else. And the baby? Not mine.
         Anyway, I’m blabbing on to much. I opened the door to my house, which is a dump too, and dropped my stuff on the kitchen bench. I opened the fridge to grab a beer, when I froze. The six pack was now a five pack. I heard a noise a noise behind me, and whirled around. I immediately zeroed in on a man sitting in the dining room, staring at me. He smiled evilly at me, which made his bald head appear wrinkled, and motioned for me to sit. Frowning, I sat, facing him, taking in his coal black suit, and evil dark eyes.
         “Who are you? What the hell are you doing in my house?” I demanded.
         He stared at me. “I am Z. A hit man. And I am here to kill you.”
         I swallowed hard. “Kill me? What? What the hell for?”
         “You know why.” Z reached down below the table, and pulled out a gun. Wildly, I looked around the room for any weapon, or an escape. Z looked at me, smiling. “You cannot escape.”
         “What do you want?”
         “To kill you. Or your family.”
         “Why?” I asked, trying to remain calm. With my hands below the table top, I grabbed my old phone from my pocket. Without looking down, I dialled 0-0-
         “Give me the phone.” Z said calmly. “Or I put a bullet in your head.” He laughed. “Not that I won’t in the end. I love to play with my victims.”
         I swallowed, and tossed him the mobile phone. It sailed through the air, and dropped onto the ground beside the hit man. Z turned, distracted, and I acted. I heaved at the table, sending it toppling down on top of Z. He cried out in surprise, the table ledge slamming into his nose and cheekbones, as I leapt from my seat, and sprinted to the garage.
         I jumped into my car, reversing straight out the opened door. I reversed onto the road, and swung left, then shifted into gear, and sped off down the suburban street. As I drove, thoughts rushed through my mind. Where should I go? The police? No, what could they do. My family? Z could find them, and me. There was no where I could go. If Z couldn’t find me, he would simply find my family. Kill them instead.
         Out of the blue, a black car rammed into the back of me. I skidded around, trying desperately to regain control of the car. I looked in the rear-view mirror. It was Z. I sped up, ignoring the speed limit, attempting to get away. It was no use, the black vehicle behind me was far superior in speed.
         I tried to multi task - drive and think at the same time. Z wanted me dead, or my family was gone. But why? Who hated me enough to kill me?
         I sped around a corner, and the road narrowed. I realised the road I occupied was following a curvy cliff around. Z rammed me again, and once more, I struggled for control. One more ram from Z, and I could disappear off the edge of the cliff.
         The idea struck me like lightning. Disappear. It was perfect. It was brilliant. It was crazy. It was -
         Z rammed me a third time. Instead of swerving left to stay on the road, I swerved right, flying off the road, and the cliff. Through the windscreen, the greyish ocean rushed up at me. I screamed in terror, regretting me not so brilliant idea. My car slammed into the water with a splash, and began sinking immediately. I took deep breaths, staying calm. I had watched this TV show a while back, which explained that car doors couldn’t be opened in the water until the pressure equalised.
         The roof of the car sunk below the surface, I took a deep breath, and opened the car door. Freezing seawater rushed in at me, and I was thrown back across the carseats. The water finished pouring in, and I swam out of the open door, careful not to snag any of my clothing against the car on my way put.
         I swam as hard as I could towards the surface, lungs ready to explode. Splashing out of the water, I sucked in deep breaths of fresh air. I looked up at the top of the cliffs, where a single figure stood watching by a black car. Fortunately, I was too far away to be seen.
         With only my head above the water, I bobbed in the ocean, suppressing my fears of sharks, until Z finally hopped back into his car, and drove off. Finally safe, I swam back towards the land, a small strip of beach in sight.

***

         I stood there, facing the man who would surely become my killer.
         “Why?” I asked. “Why must you kill me?” Tears of anger formed at my eyes.
         Z looked at  me. “ Because it’s what I do.”
         “But why?” I pleaded. “Who hired you?”
         Z stood there silently for a second, watching me. Finally, he shrugged. “It’s your ex-wife, Kathryn. She isn’t happy living in her apartment. Wants her house back. And the only way that would happen is if you were dead.”
         My jaw dropped. “What? You mean all this, is about that dump of a house?!”
         Z shrugged again. “I guess.”
         I sighed, accepting my fate. “How did you find me?”
         “Enough talk.” Z aimed the weapon at my face. I noticed in the shadows, a large black and purple rectangular bruise across his face.
         “I’m as good as dead,” I said. “You might as well tell me.”
         “Very well. I have marvellous eye sight. I saw you get out of your car.”
         I nodded. I thought he might have. Z noticed me staring at his bruise, and touched it gently. “That hurt. But it made me stronger. I will not fall for that trick again.”
         “Fine. Give it to my family,” I replied, tossing a picture of myself to his feet. His eyes flicked downwards, and I whipped out a gun from my pocket. I aimed it upwards, at his chest, and pulled the trigger. Three loud bangs burst from the muzzle in a flash of light, and three holes appeared on Z’s chest. The surrounding area off his chest began to stain red. He gasped. I watched him fall to his knees in slow motion. He fell forwards, landing face first on the damp alleyway, dead.
         “I think you did fall for that trick again.” I told him.