Please don't kill me.
You know how there are those moments in life in which you are presented with a choice and you feel that you cannot win? I suspect that the rest of my life will feel that way. My situation, as unique as it may be, is completely my own fault, I recognize that. That doesn't stop it from being needlessly cruel.
It all began with an innocent break-in, perpetrated by yours truly. I'd broken into an outwardly elegant mansion. The inside was very well kept and stocked with the most expensive of furniture, floors, counter-tops and toilets, mind you, but something felt amiss. In hindsight, I feel that how easy the front door gave way to my foot should have been the first sign that something was wrong. I'd managed to empty some items of interest (a couple of money stacks and a laptop, both of which were found in a home office area) into my backpack from downstairs and then made my way up to the upper floor.
There is a saying that goes something like, “Assume makes an ass out of you and me.” Well... in this case, assume makes one of us dead. Yeah, the owner was home. As it turns out, no cars in the driveway is not a clear cut indication that the residence is empty. The old guy came barreling out of his bedroom and got a hard-framed certificate to the head. Look, I only meant to knock him out at worst! It isn't my fault that the elderly are so fragile. I didn't check the rest of the manor; I just couldn't bring myself to do so.
Within twenty-four hours the police were knocking at my door and presenting me with some shiny steel cuffs. They were cufflinks in a sense, but not the kind that I wanted to be able to afford; these were handcuffs. I'm expecting to get sent to a cold, hard cell, but I find myself at a law office. It turns out that the police had brought me before the codger's personal lawyer. The police officers stood beside me, still cuffed, as the lawyer read me the will of one very recently deceased Edgar Westbrook. The suit tells me that I have two choices with the first being to go to prison for life; he assured me that Edgar had greased enough palms to ensure that sentence would befall me should I choose to go to trial. The second, and likely equally illegal, option was that I inherit Westbrook's wealth.
Now, that sounded swell to me, but then the lawyer read the terms. Should I choose option two, I must live in the mansion, make a will which would name my killer as my beneficiary with the exact two same options offered to him or her, and I must put out an ad in the newspaper at the start of every month stating my place of residence and the beneficiary condition of my will. Should any of those terms be breached, then hello doghouse for me! Not so swell now, is it?
I went with option two, because FREEDOM! When the police dumped me off at my new home and slapped an ankle bracelet on me, it really hit home how both options were prison, except one came with a life sentence and the other a sentencing of death. I feel like a right and proper moron now, realizing that I chose death over a life sentencing. Technically, I could just leave and get sent to prison, but that somehow seems more final than the potential death that awaits.
In the end, it just boils down to hoping for decency in others. In relation to decency, I found a note left to me (well, not to me, but the killer of Edgar Westbrook which just so happens to be me) that ranted about how Ol' Edgar might not be able to have his cancer cured, but he would be able to treat the cancer that is his hometown's society. I must admit, that note makes me feel like I've chosen poorly. I guess what it all boils down to is:
Please don't kill me.
Narration
Written by Doom Vroom
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