Everyone's a Critic

He didn't know what happened. He doesn't why he's awakened to so much darkness. The last thing he remembered was going home to get some sleep and an electric shock came over him. Was it a taser? Was he taken? Besides waking up in the dark he couldn't get up . He was sitting down, tied to a chair. He couldn't feel any circulation on either of his wrists. Too tight to be ropes so it had to be twist ties. Panic started setting in and he had to know why this was happening. Why him of all people?

"Hello?" He said. "Hello? Anybody there? Where am I? Talk to me, please."

He received no response, except for the sound of footsteps drawing near.

"I can hear you", he said. "I know you're there. Please, answer me."

The footsteps drew closer.. Creaking sounds were made with every step taken; sounds of old wooden steps. A cigarette lit up before him. He couldn't see who it was that blew smoke his way. The amount of smoke made him cough but he was more concerned about the situation at hand and not his own health.

"Listen", he said, "this has to be a mistake. Just let me go and we'll forget about it. The cops won't know anything because I haven't seen your face."

Suddenly, the lights were switched on, forcing him to close his eyes nice and tight. After taking in the brightness he was able to see the face of the mysterious stranger, young, mid thirties, and sporting a thick beard. It was someone he did not recognize. When he checked his surroundings he realized he was in his own basement; the familiar musty smell, boards covering the small windows, and stacks of dusty old cardboard boxes gave it all away.

The owner of this house was in his late fifties, bald, and a bit out of shape. His teeth were stained by years of smoking. The one thing that came to mind was a robbery and nothing else. Whatever this man wanted he was willing to give it to him without question.

"Is that better?" The stranger asked, trying to make him comfortable.

"I don't want to see your face", he said. "Take whatever you want and leave. I won't tell anyone. You have my word."

"That's what they all say. I'm not here to rob you. You don't exactly have anything that's of value anyway."

"What do you want? Who are you?"

"Who am I? I'm your worst nightmare. I'm the grim reaper. I'm the monster that hid under your bed when you were nine years old."

"I don't understand. What do you want?"

"It's not what I want, it's what you're going to do."

"W-what am I going to do?"

"You'll know soon enough, Mr. James. Yeah, I know exactly who you are."

His full name was Richard James, columnist of his own web site called, "Richard's Block." Controversy was his middle name; known to piss people off with his criticism on the subject of politics, movies, music, and whatever came to mind. When it came to books he showed no mercy on the writers. Almost every book he supposedly read he would give bad reviews, some more humiliating than others. He received threats now and again but never took them seriously. Richard couldn't care less if people hated him or not. He enjoyed doing what he did the most.

"The great Richie James", the stranger said, "the biggest blow hard on the internet. An asshole that won't keep his mouth shut. Oh, I would love to staple your lips together, but I wouldn't be able to listen to your kind opinions. Opinions do matter, don't you think?"

"Yeah", said Richard. "I agree fully."

"Good. That's really good, because you really know how to hurt people with your opinions. Words can't hurt people, right?"

"They shouldn't."

"Sticks and stones, right?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Come on , you were a kid once. Don't you remember the old children's rhyme?"

Richard had no idea where the stranger was going with this. If he were to survive this night he had to play along for his benefit.

"Sticks and stones", he said, "may break my bones."

"But words will never harm me", the stranger finished. "I beg to differ, because words do harm me. Your words harmed me and my family."

"What are you talking about? I don't know you or your family."

"Maybe not, but your words hurt my brother."

Richard was hit real hard in that moment. Was this man looking for payback for something he did or shouldn't have done? He had to continue playing along this deadly game before it got any worse.

"What?" Said Richard. "Your brother? I never met your brother."

"You knew his name and the book he wrote. It was called, 'Office Space.' Sound familiar? His name was Aaron Miller."

With so many books reviewed he barely remembered them by heart. He kept repeating the title in his head until slowly remembering the plot of the story.

"Aaron Miller", said Richard. "Yeah, I remember him. The book where the guy whose friends turn on him, got him fired then he kills everyone in the building."

"Good", said the stranger. "You remember."

"That was a great story. I enjoyed it very much."

"No, you didn't."

"I did, I swear."

"Don't lie to me. I know exactly what you said. You said things like, 'how dare he write this type of story', 'what is this garbage he's trying to sell?' 'Nobody wants to know about your personal life. You hate your life, here's the solution, kill yourself. Just kill yourself, it's that simple.' Ring any bells?"

Richard remembered those words and how cruel he was to the young writer. To him it wasn't a big deal.

"Yeah", said the stranger, "you remember don't you? I remember every word you wrote."

"Is that what this is about? You want me to apologize to your brother? Fine, I'll do it. Where is he?"

"He's dead."

"What?"

"He's dead. Killed himself just like you told him to."

Richard was starting to realize what the situation was about. Despite the many threats he received, personal vendettas was a whole different matter. He'd never had this kind of hate before and he can hear the anger coming from this stranger.

"He killed himself?" Richard asked. "I-I'm sorry."

"Save it", said the stranger. "Your apologies mean nothing. Your words mean absolutely nothing to me. All they ever did was kill my brother. He hung himself in his basement a lot similar to yours."

"Wait, you can't honestly say I had anything to do with his suicide? I didn't tell him to actually kill himself. It was just talk that's all."

"Just talk? Your just talk had people saying negative things to him on his personal page. They agreed with every word you said and much worse. His book didn't do well and nobody cared about it. He was in a deep depression and so drunk that he didn't want to write anymore. Three days later I paid a visit to his place and I found him hanging with a note taped to his chest. It said, 'everyone's a critic.' Sad story, ain't it?"

"Look, I am sorry for your loss, but you can't blame me for that. I don't go out and tell people to do all that."

"But you did, asshole. You took away all that because you couldn't shut your fucking mouth. You had to turn it into a big deal and for what, for the fans? You don't give a shit who you hurt as long as it pleases your viewers. You think your apologies will bring my brother back? You think your kind words will take away the pain you caused? Better yet, what about the other people you hurt in your spare time? Are you willing to say your sorry to them?"

"Who? What are you talking about?"

The stranger picked up a box from behind Richard, dropping it right in front of him. Dust spread out once he opened it up and pulled out the contents inside. The stranger's hand felt dirty throwing what appeared to be photographs at Richard's face. Photographs he'd been saving for a long time and getting away with it. Richard felt embarrassed and devastated that his secret was out.

"Wait", he said, "please listen to me."

"You're one sick fuck", said the stranger. "Really sick. When people find out what you've been doing in your spare time they'll probably lynch your ass. In prison? Oh, boy are you in trouble. You know what they do to guys like you in prison? You become someone's bitch and they pass you around for all to get a piece of you. If you're lucky maybe they'll kill you in a week. I don't even want to know what's in those other boxes."

"You want to blackmail me, too?"

"I told you I don't want anything you own. I'm going to tell you like this, Richie so listen carefully. Tonight, in this very basement, you're going to die."

The words just shook the very core of Richard's soul. He expected this to happen after what he was told. Being responsible for someone's death seemed reasonable enough.

"Please don't", he said. "You don't want to do this. You won't be able to live with yourself."

"Relax, Richie", said the stranger, "I'm not going to kill you. You are."

"I don't understand."

"It's simple really. You are going to kill yourself, tonight."

"No, I won't do that."

"I don't think you have a choice. It's either that-or everyone will know about your little hobby."

"You can't do this. Please, don't do this."

"You're scum, Richie. You're the lowest form of life and you deserve everything coming to you."

"Please, I'll change. I promise I'll do better with my life. I'll apologize to everyone I hurt."

"A little late for that don't you think? Let me tell you something else. My brother's book was a work of fiction. It wasn't based on his life or any personal experience. He had a good life until you ruined it for him."

The stranger pulled out a knife, cutting off the twist tie bounding Richard's right wrist, leaving the other one tied down. In his gloved hands he pulled out another weapon, placing it in Richard's own hand.

"What are you doing?" Richard asked. "Is this a gun?"

"Not an ordinary gun", the stranger explained. "What you're holding right now is a bolt pistol. They use this to put down cows before they're slaughtered. They put it to their heads, pull the trigger, and boom down they go. It doesn't really kill them. It just knocks them out so they don't feel anything while they're being slaughtered. On a human being it's supposed to kill you instantly, maybe cause some brain damage."

"No, I can't. I won't do it."

"Whether you do it or play shower games with a six footer named Bubba, it doesn't matter to me. Either way you're fucked."

"No, wait", said Richard, "don't go. Please, you can't do this to me."

"I'm going to give you some privacy, make it easy for you to decide on what to do."

"Please, don't. Don't leave me here."

Up the stairs the young man went, straight into the kitchen, finishing up his cigarette. He stood by the doorway listening in on Richard panicking over the decision he had trouble making.

"Please", Richard cried, "I don't want to die."

"Not my problem, Richard. This is all on you. All you have to do is squeeze the trigger."

"Please."

Richard pointed the gun to his head but didn't have the guts to pull the trigger. He couldn't decide what he wanted to do. Killing himself was something he never thought about doing, but going to prison for being a sick pervert was one place he would rather not set foot in.

"Damn it", he cried. "Fuck! I can't do it."

Richard tried again and still he couldn't do it. He thought it was unfair for him to decide his own fate. He sat there crying his eyes out and struggled to get himself loose. He had nothing that would cut the twist tie easily.

"Fuck!" He shouted, knowing full well that no one was going to help him. "I can't do it. Please, don't make me do this. I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

Richard continued crying and again struggled to break free. He had nowhere to go. His legs shook and his heart pound in his ears. Back and forth he pointed the pistol to his head, again unable to pull the trigger.

"Please, don't make me do this", he continued crying. "Damn you!"

Richard closed his eyes. One more time he placed the pistol to his head, finally pulling the trigger. Suddenly, there was silence except for the sounds of Richard's corpse and chair falling over like a ton of bricks. Aaron Miller's brother was deeply satisfied with what he heard and made his way out.

"For you, brother", he said.