Gag. Up rises the insides of my being for the fourth time (I think) this night; nondescript orange goop erupts from my esophagus in revolting waves of stinging misery. Lava. My throat is scolding and raw, a fiery tunnel of ailing agony. I feel betrayed, bested, by my own decaying carcass. Taxing heaves linger in the absence of my spewing vomit fits. I’m very much alone, barfing out my guts (and simultaneously, my dignity--cliche), and purely exhausted. Quite literally. I hadn’t slept in probably seventy-two hours; I’m unphased, my body itself hardly even yearning for that sweet release of unconsciousness anymore. The concept of treating my body to some recharge is practically meaningless to me now, like most other things, I’ve lost the will to truly care. But, I would do just about anything to escape what was my impending doom, ever-improaching upon me, causing these horrendous waves of sickly fluid cascading out from me. I was a numb, zombified excuse of a human, physically wrecked, emotionally soured, what have you. It felt as though my sheer self had been stripped of her potential, personality, core. Gag.

On the bright side (ha, that phrase is just blatantly insulting in context), Step 1 was already complete: Wake up precisely by 7:00 AM. It was around 6:35 now and chances were slim to none that I’d be crashing anytime soon. I’d spent my night (day?) staring at the inside of a toilet bowl and flushing (and flushing, and flushing). The shower beside me featured a constant trickling leak and lacked any curtain barrier, making the floor more disgustingly damp with every drip, drip, drip. The instructions lay limp on the waterlogged tiled flooring of the bathroom, gross and grimy as it was, inky edges of letters bleeding and distorting on the page. The paper had been dirtied and crumpled along with soaked, some of the gratuitous creasing making certain words illegible. That wasn’t of much concern to me though, I’d been eying and memorizing this script ever since I located it adhered to this very bathroom’s smudged mirror. At the top, my name, full name actually: Evangeline Elliot Walker. Seeing my identity sprawled out in sloppy penmanship on this note made me feel minimally less like a decaying soul awaiting her demise, and more like a person. Numbered from top to bottom was a list of directions, only five, the handwriting became worse as I read and reread. The commands were laid out as so: 

Wake up precisely by 7:00 AM.
Retrieve everything you may have brought with you to the apartment and leave by 7:15 AM.
Once outside the building, locate the disposable cell phone underneath the bench to the left of the entryway.
Go to the designated park location on the map and locate Target.
Find gun beneath the table, eliminate Target, evade park. 

I’ve never been made aware of who Target is, but as I mentioned, I am regretfully numb. Names, identities, they’re insignificant as of late. 

 I was still in my huddled position, breathing only through the mouth out of respect for my sense of smell, tasting the sick-infested air, knees indented and tingling from remaining on the abrasive ground for too long. My nausea hadn’t exactly subsided, nor my huffing and puffing. It was becoming more and more eviscerating as the seconds flew by, only now accompanied by the pounding of a restless, overworked heartbeat and a mirrored throbbing of brain. With another flush and a head rush, I stood, eyes fluttering one, two, three times before focusing on the beige, dirt-covered wall. Preparing myself for Step 2, I retrieve my dilapidated instructions and collect my thoughts briefly. I glanced toward the mirror, a skeletal stranger staring back, eyes without-life and glassy, skin green and sunken. I must not have eaten in several days. I looked for only a split second, any longer and I could’ve faltered, how did I get here.

Other than lingering evidence of my guilty conscience, the bathroom was clear. My legs led me out of the flickering light into a larger, somehow grungier space. It was chilled, smelling of a dingy garage or musty basement, dusted-off nostalgia, the gray of the walls and floor may have been cement. It was hard and smooth and cold and omnipresent throughout the room. Blurry. I didn’t have much else in the apartment, so my second requirement wouldn’t be difficult to fulfill. I located the map of New York City I’d been given originally, previously tossed on the only piece of furniture in the room, a moderately sized coffee table in the far right corner. Scribbled on the document were two things: first, my current destination, and second, a park location I’d been advised to only visit when given explicit instruction to do so. See: Step 4. After grabbing my map I approached the front door. I twisted the rusted knob, too small in my hand. It squeaked a shrill tone and introduced me to the fluorescently lit halls of a seemingly vacant apartment complex. My eyes squint suddenly, adjusting to the too-bright environment. An elderly woman was kneeling a few doors down to pick up a package. I made my way down a flight of stairs or two, finally reaching the opening to an outside world. 

Step 3, check. To the left of the doorway was a lone bench, taped beneath it a flimsy burner phone. Flipping up the screen, I noticed a message was sent and delivered, ready to be consumed and contemplated. 

APPROACH SECOND ADDRESS ON MAP

TARGET AWAITS ARRIVAL: RED COAT

Straight to the point, easy. I unfolded the map that had been stuffed in my pocket. Strange, I didn’t remember putting it there yet somehow my hand instantly moved to my back pocket to retrieve the map. My body is still aware, mind, not so much. 

Off I went. The streets were eerily quiet, busy, just not bustling--birds hopped obliviously across pavements, hardly ever being startled away by improaching vehicles or bicyclists. Occasionally I’d pass a sewage drain or excessive piled-up garbage, attacking my nostrils, causing cheeks and nose to scrunch up. My legs drudged along, ambling, dysphoric and depleted. It was convenient for the park to be so close by Address 1, disappointing, but convenient. My eyes sunk into my skull, conceptualizing--weighing options. I didn’t have very many. Two. So, I kept walking.

Red coat, spotted. I refolded and restuffed the map, wedging it into my back pocket. Target was a woman judging from the back of the head. She greeted me with her eyes as I neared, oddly, calmly, as if she anticipated her fate and had come to terms with it. Her face looked kind, delicate. I didn’t want to, I didn’t have a right to, but I pitied her. “Hello.” She had a soft voice and her mouth remained parted a bit, she wanted to say something more but refrained. Her lips met and formed an upward semi-curve. I wondered why she thought we’re meeting here today. Her name, I wondered if I’d learn it before the end. She could be a Margot, that’d fit, or perhaps Melody, Maeve even. Something M, definitely M--a middle of the road type of name. Age: eh, early to mid-thirties. What she did to deserve this particular destiny. I wondered that, too. 

“Hello.” I seated myself, a casual demeanor, just a hint of reluctance in my weak movements. I was awkward here, certainly appearing disheveled compared to Target. My voice wavered ever so slightly, coming out as a whispery afterthought. I felt around for the pistol, internally begging for it to not be there. It was, of course it was, like clockwork.

Silence lingered in the air a moment too long. I gingerly fiddled with what felt like painters tape (strange choice) locking the gun in place, so as to not make sound. I detached it and rested the device plainly in my lap. Hands off for now. “Well, I must admit that a Parent-Teacher Conference in the park is a tad unconventional, but it is lovely to finally meet you, Ms. Cavanaugh.” 

Oh, hm, alright. I wasn’t quite certain of what to respond, or even who I was supposed to be in this scenario, so my lips stayed sealed. She spoke again, “I’m sorry I’ve been, um, unavailable. To meet, recently. Leo talks about your class all the time.” She speaks in quite a funny way, as if she’s improvising every next word that comes out of her mouth. 

I’ve now clearly established who I am in this narrative--her narrative. I could never be a teacher in reality, I didn’t have the patience or maternal instinct enough for it. Hopefully she’d realize that and leave as quickly as possible. 

I envied the fact that her brain was not going a million miles a minute, stomach not churning with every passing millisecond. She has a child. Leo. Margot (or Melody, or Maeve) and her soon to be motherless son, Leo. I jerked my mind away from the thought and realized I’d been staring not at the woman, but at a puddle on the earth to my right. I resemble the hollow shell of a human being, that must be what she’s thinking behind that gentle gaze. 

Oh, c’mon Eva, warm it up, make her feel like you’re her son’s teacher and not some soulless murderer. “No worries.” I grinned at her, earning some relief in her face. I realized I hadn't talked to anyone other than myself in some time--I missed that interaction quite a bit. Funnily, I would rather this conversation end as quickly as possible, but in order for that to happen, well… It shall drag on for now, but the conclusion was inevitable. One of the people sitting at this dew-covered metal table in the middle of a park in New York City would have blood drained from her body, from the head, or chest, or somewhere else, and die before rising again. 

She smiled at me, polite, motherly. The kind of smile that is normal, expected to see just about anywhere, but makes this all the more challenging. Leo is at home waiting for Mommy to come home. My disposable pinged and my chest along with it. 

1:00, 0:59, 0:58…

Countdown, wonderful. “So…” she looked up to me, an ounce of annoyance behind her smile, “The email I was sent was a little vague, why exactly are we meeting today?”

My eyes widened microscopically, how should I know? “Right, sorry, rough morning.” I wasn’t lying. 

0:41, 0:38, 0:39… 

My heartbeat began to match the timer ticking away, I tried best to remain calm and collected in expression. “Leo is just such a wonderful student. You should be very proud of him.” My eyes glossed over, I blinked away any threatening tears with semi-success. 

She grinned fondly, “Yeah, he’s a really special kid.” She leaned forward in her seat, “I guess I'm biased, but…” She giggled, shrugging her shoulders.

0:23, 0:22, 0:21…  

I sighed, leg bobbing up and down, eyes darting around the environment. My hands grasped the handgun tightly. Her or me, her or me, her or me. “Yes, you’ve done a wonderful job raising him.” I couldn’t face her. My gaze landed in the puddle, a single yellow leaf floating atop the murky water. It was cold, or at least I was shivering. 

0:15, 0:14, 0:13… 

I couldn’t control the fluid in my eyes any longer. “Oh, uhm, are you alright?” I raised the gun minimally, head just below the surface of the table. My hands trembled.  

“Yes, yes, fine, thank you.”

0:09, 0:08, 0:07…

“Are you sure?” She sounded concerned. My eyes met hers again. 

“Absolutely. Uhm, may I ask… ahem what’s your name?”

0:05, 0:04, 0:03… 

I closed my eyes. “Oh, of course, it’s--”

Her or me, her or me, her or me. 

BANG!