H
ow was I supposed to
decide whether someone
deserved to die? Dr
Macali was cheating
on his pregnant wife with three
undergraduate students. I knew
this because one of them was my
housemate, Tasha. Then I followed
him. That might seem strange, and
no, I didn’t start stalking my lecturer
out of loyalty to a girl I’ve lived with
for three months. Somebody had to
die, and I needed to choose who.
Still, death seemed an over-the-top
punishment. Which was a shame
because Dr Macali had 62 years to
live. So, I headed to the library early
to choose a more deserving victim.
I settled for a solitary corner spot
on the top floor. One of the ceiling
lights was broken, but the dim
lighting felt appropriate.
I worked until I couldn’t ignore the
nausea. After a morning of googling
‘people who deserve to die’ and ‘most
disturbing people on the planet’ – Itaking his life and using it for good?
However, he was locked deep in
maximum security prison. And who
knew how many years he had left. I
could end up stealing a handful of
years, months, or even days from him
and be forced to take another life
further down the line. When I said I
wouldn’t feel guilty, that didn’t mean
I wanted to end a life. This once, for
Sophie’s sake, but never again.
* * * * *
A year ago, Sophie had a blood clot.
There was no warning and no reason.
On Tuesday evening we’d been out for
dinner; Sophie had a chicken caesar
salad with the dressing on the side and
one medium glass of white wine. Then
she’d collapsed on Thursday morning.
I knew she was dying before they
told me. ‘It could take hours, days,
even weeks, but she will go,’ the
doctor had said. Her condition did
nothing to suggest otherwise: her still
body diminished by the day, and the
colour faded from her rosy face.
‘It will be seven days,’ I heard my
own voice tell me. I tried to dismiss
the thought – how could I know
such a thing? But the voice persisted,
whispering the truth to my bones.
I walked out of the hospital to get
some air, and I knew how long
everyone had left. The doctor who
had delivered Sophie’s prognosis: 25SPECULATIVE
FICTIONCOMPETITION
1st place
£200
32 MARCH 2020 http://www.writers-online.co.ukhad found the darkest corners of the
internet. I had hoped music might
temper the vileness, so I put on an
‘upbeat pop’ playlist. It helped a
little, until I reached an article about
a woman who caved in her new-
born son’s head with a stiletto. Paolo
Nutini’s New Shoes started cheerily
playing, and I ripped my headphones
off as if they might contaminate me.
Later, when Sophie appeared and
slumped into the chair next to me, I
was glad for the excuse to push my
laptop aside.
‘Really Gina, did you have to pick the
top floor? I’ve been looking for you.’
‘How did you know I was here?’
‘I installed “find my friend” on
your phone. Unfortunately, it doesn’t
work vertically.’
I couldn’t help but grin. ‘Why am I
not surprised?’
Sophie wasn’t listening. She stared
behind me and scrunched up her nose
like she’d smelt something revolting.
A bloody image peeked out from my
half-closed laptop.
‘Christ, what is that?’ she said, as
she dragged the screen between us.
On the screen was my latest
potential. There was a photo of him
next to a room where he had kept
seven teenage girls locked up. None
survived. I felt no conflict over this
one. Why should I feel guilty forby Jenny Morris
Siphons
Jenny Morris lives in Crowborough,
the home of Winnie the Pooh and an
outrageous number of charity shops.
She is currently fi nishing her PhD in
Psychology and writing her fi rst novel
on the Faber Academy six-month
writing a novel course. When not
reading or writing speculative fi ction,
Jenny enjoys riding around the forest
and playing video games.