I had to make a big decision and I was there for hours thinking about the right solution. In front of me on the table was the white plastic bag containing the "magic powder" and just beyond that, the boxes containing hundreds of those bags. A mistake. A mix-up of recipients. The courier probably got the address wrong. I have two choices: sell it or flush it down the toilet. Or there's a third one. Wait for someone to come and correct the mistake. There was really so much to it and I could make a ton of money. I could become rich. Everyone would be looking for me. I would become famous. Finally, I would live like a true queen. I would invest the money to set myself up for life. Of course, selling it means giving it to someone who will use it and essentially helping that person reach rock bottom. Yet there are those who have been doing it forever. They produce death and destruction and sell them in small bags for 30 euros. Yes, I have decided. Who cares about others. Let them sink if they want to. It's my chance. I just need to organize myself. I'll ask for help from a trusted friend, who might even know more about these things than me. But who? I go out. I walk on the sidewalk, see people passing by me, hear noises, but it's all muffled. I have only one thought. How do I do it? What do I do? I come back home, I want to sleep on it. I open the door, enter the living room and see a man sitting in the armchair and a sudden intense light. I can't feel my legs anymore, I kneel down, I let myself fall. I'm dead. I float in the room above my body. Time passes differently after death. It must have been months in real life. I see myself half-rotten in a dark gray puddle and around my body rats that come in and out of my jacket. But did no one notice that I'm gone? Has no one come looking for me?
Photo by Alice Alinari on Unsplash