Karma Killer

This is a departure for me. Fair warning folks, this gets quite dark before it goes other places. Depression and suicidal ideation are some of the themes explored here, so be aware before you venture in.

Yes, I am still writing just... life has exploded a bit and my time is far more limited than it used to be. Thanks by 29Wordsfornow for looking over my drivel.

According to the last step in the plan, the one I'd followed for the last four weeks, gently pulling the trigger made the Glock model 20's stock ratchet back and then jump forward, the internal hammer connecting with the .45 shell inside, igniting the packed powder and sending the projectile part of the bullet from its casing, down the rifled barrel and on its way.

The end of a multi-step plan, and here it was. I wasn't happy or sad. Just... done.

And then the damnedest thing happened. Like... weird mystical weird. Out-of-your-body, no-one-will-ever-believe-this kind of event. The ones you read about and scoff at them, and carry on reading your Yahoo news and gently smile at the stupidity of some people who genuinely believe all that Intervention and Life-After-Death and Angels bullshit. I know I certainly didn't believe a word of it, and yet I was in one of those situations. I still don't believe it. Not quite.

I was suddenly in a bar. Not one I recognized. Old wood panels, big European style solid wood carved bar, glasses hanging down from holders in racks over the bar. Lots of people, the murmur of conversations, a TV blaring somewhere. Bodies moving, people swapping stories, the sun low in the sky out the big plate windows which somehow looked out to a busy city street and a glorious mountainous vista, at the same time.

It was like a dream, but more substantial than that. I don't know how your dreams are, but mine are often disjointed. A scene happens, some interaction happens, and then one thing from that scene carries across into a totally different scenario involving different people. Lots of fragments, with small bits that carry across. This... wasn't like that. It had elements of a dream though, - not that I realized it at the time, but everyone was indistinct. More like the idea of a bar than an actual bar. Not a memory of a bar, but what your mind brings up when you think of a bar, at a busy time of day.

I looked around, wondering why I was there, and then I heard, "Oliver! Over here, love!" and I looked around and there she was, sitting at a table, that dopey smile she always had. She gestured at me, waving me over. There was a pint of Blue Moon on the table. Well, I assume it was Blue Moon. It looked like it and as it was my tipple of choice, it made sense. Of course that would be there.

So I ambled over, avoiding the indistinct bodies in my way. I sat down, looked at Ruby Matteson, and wondered how I could ever have been so lucky. The pride of a partner like her mixed with the pain of loss.

Remembering this event, I struggled to remember how she looked. She was like every different look she ever had, all at once. That terrible perm she had when I first met her, eleven years ago. The short blond phase, the longer brunette period, the colors-throughout time, that thankfully hadn't lasted that long. She'd done it for a Halloween costume and hadn't realized the colors wouldn't wash out. Then she'd shrugged and smiled and said, "Wait it out! Won't the school be surprised!"

But it was Ruby. There she was, large and life and twice as cheerful as her mother used to say before she died. Sparkling lopsided smile, slightly crooked nose, wide mouth, eyes that glistened all the time, full of life and vigor and obviously intent on having a good time. Only that was the problem. Ruby had been dead over three months now, and she wasn't going to be having any kind of time, ever again. I'd identified her body, with the car accident wounds, head all smashed in and marks all over her naked torso. Several not from the accident. You don't get love bites from a car crash.

I should rewind a bit, to explain how we got here. I've kind of dropped you into this a bit abruptly, and I need to give you some context.

I'm Oliver Matteson. Well, I am right this second. Who knows who or what I'll be a split second from now. Nothing at all, most likely.

So what's my story? Short version, somewhat strange boy meets girl. Girl likes boy. Boy doesn't quite know why but his momma didn't raise no idiot, so he takes advantage, cos the girl is hot and cool and smart and he's never going to do any better. Boy and Girl get married. Boy discovers he has a genetic issue, and should not reproduce because it's likely any offspring will be stillborn, and Boy and Girl go through issues. They recover, things go back to normal, right up till Girl is killed in a car accident, late at night, in a car with another man, completely naked. Both of them. Evidence of recent sex on both bodies. Not much to be confused about, there.

And so we come to here. To me, sitting in my car, driven slightly off the tarmac in Idaho in one of the largest forests in the US just off a very infrequently used road, parked carefully behind some trees so unseen from the main road, with the recently purchased Glock pistol in my hand, pointed at my temple and the trigger pulled. Or, sitting at a bar with my deceased wife. Take your pick.

I met Ruby thirteen years ago. I should go into more detail so you get it properly... I'm a fairly nonsocial kind of fella. Not that I'm socially awkward; I can party it up with the best of them if I am put in that position, just... I prefer to sit and watch rather than be in the middle. When asked, I can perform like anyone else, just not many people ask. Which is fine by me.

I first came across Ruby when I was asked to speak at our annual board meeting, just after I had joined the company. Why I was asked and not my boss, Henry Stratton, well... I'll explain.

I have a strange job. I am head of Corporate Strategy at my place of employment, Breckenridge Moldings and Castings. Why, I hear you ask, would a Moldings and Castings company have an office of 'Corporate Strategy'? What kind of strategy would a parts manufacturer corporation really need? And that would be a good question. To answer it, I have to explain that Breckenridge M&C isn't just a parts maker. It used to be, back in the nineteen fifties, but in the seventies, they started also building parts and processes for manufacturing parts for other companies. So, if Ford wants to build all the parts for their new mesh-based transmission, they come to us and we try a few things out in house, then advise them on how they need to set up their factories, what machines they'll need, what the process is, and so on.

We built up quite a clientele in terms of building out construction processes, and then came CAD-CAM and CNC lathes and programmable manufacturing machines, and we started patenting some of those processes. Now we have quite a large war chest of patents and we are constantly building new processes. We'll even do it for free now, for some manufacturers, and then license them the patent instead.

We do still make parts for specialized requirements; SpaceX, NASA, Space Force, Tank manufacturers and so on, so there's a second stream of income from those contracts too. All in all, Breckenridge is a very profitable business and does well. And that makes it a massive acquisition target. We also do sometimes gobble up other smaller engineering firms along the way, if it makes sense or we feel our dominance is being threatened.

The office of Corporate Strategy has a twofold purpose. The first is to protect against unfriendly acquisition threats, to see them coming and develop policy and plans to head them off at the pass, so to speak. And the second is to organize ways to swallow up other companies we feel will help us stay where we are. One hand is really just working out ways to stop what the other hand is actively doing to others.

It requires knowledge of the current state of our corner of the world, some sneakiness, a healthy dose of paranoia, a little bit of ruthlessness, and a large dash of the ability to make plans with lots of steps, with contingency plans for each step, in case of failure. And if there is one thing I am good it, it's making plans, step by step.

I was hired out of college when it was clear I had no real idea what to do with myself after I graduated. The only teacher I've ever connected with, Ms. Kessington, who taught business statistics and economics and who had taken an interest in me, recommended me to them. She was old friends with my new boss, Henry Stratton. He was looking to retire in a few years and apparently needed a protégé, and none of the people who reported to him currently was what he was looking for, but Ms. Kessington thought I might be. One graduation, one interview, one test, and boom, I was to report to the Breckenridge Castings and Moldings headquarters in Albuquerque, New Mexico, forthwith.

I spent several years learning the craft, and Henry Stratton took me under his wing and I was clearly his heir apparent after a couple of years. No one else in the department cared, because for everyone else it was just a stepping stone. They all had their sights set elsewhere, but I was content, because it really spoke to my strengths.

I took over from Henry, when he did retire, about seven years after I joined. I'd married Ruby by then and was sitting pretty, or as pretty as I was really ever going to get, anyway.

Ruby was working the hotel where the yearly board meeting was held, downtown. They did it there just to make sure it wasn't around where everyone else at the company was, in case anything awkward had to be discussed. I was sent by Henry to make the point that I was Next In Line to his throne, to represent him and get the board used to who I was and who they'd be talking to once he was gone.

She was basically working the room, being the hotel representative, and... well, she caught my eye, and I hers. We got talking while I was waiting to be summoned inside, and suddenly I had a dinner date in the hotel restaurant and it just went from there.

I honestly had no idea why a cute woman with so much going for her would even look twice at me; I'm very aware of who I am, and what I'm not - I am the epitome of Nothing Special, -but she did and as mentioned, momma didn't raise no fool. I took full advantage, even knowing it wouldn't last and she'd get bored or someone better would catch her eye.

I worked very hard to both be worthy of her but also not invest too much of myself in her, because the inevitable personal explosion when she decided to venture to pastures new would be devastating to me. So I ran this tight rope of surface commitment without giving my heart. Although, to be really honest, I was just fooling myself. She took it home with her after the first time she stayed over and I had very little say in the matter.

I had some experience in that area, but not much; the fact that she had more experience was fine with me. She could lead me by the hand, so to speak. And she did. She most assuredly did. Both hands, sometimes. And it was blissful.

She moved in three months later, and we were married five months after that. And it was great. Terrific even. I dared invest myself in her, and it was the most fulfilled I've ever felt. Right up till it wasn't.

So here we are. Sitting in the idea of a pub with my deceased wife, about to be deceased myself. I guess the mind really does play tricks on you at its end? Or maybe there is life after death, and this is my introduction into it. It wasn't so much my life flashing before my eyes as... well, I didn't know what this was. But not seeing my life flash before my eyes was no real surprise. Apart from Ruby, there was very little worth repeating now. Nothing much I'd care to see, anyway.

"Hey Olly," she said, pushing the pint at me a bit across the small table she was sitting at. "No orange slice, just as you like it."

I picked up the drink and sipped it. Tasted faithful enough. Might as well drink it, I mean, what else should I do?

See, that's the problem with outside life limbo excursions that happen right before you die. Do you take them seriously, ignore them, go along for the ride but understand that everything that happens is a dying mind trying to make sense of itself right before extinction? What? What's the etiquette for being quite skeptical when meeting the ghost of your dead wife?

She could see my expression.

"Yeah, not what you'd expect, right? Me neither." She took a large drink of her...white wine? That was her usual. But this was a BIG glass and she normally took small dainty ones. Lots of them, to be clear, but smaller glasses, because it 'made her look less of a lush.' Apparently.

She saw me glance and grinned. "I know. But... we have some stuff to talk about and I don't want to keep going to the bar."

So far I'd not said a word. She'd just read my expressions, like she did when she... we... were alive.

"So..." I said, not quite sure where to start. I mean, I noticed some things. That's what I do. Notice things. That's why I was employed where I was. I even had a T-shirt that said, "I drink and I notice things", even though I didn't drink that much.

For a start, I was not as angry as I should have been. Or upset. Or... well anything extreme, to be honest. I had been seething. And upset. And hurt. And depressed, brother, yeah. The mother of all depressions. After all, I was sitting in a car about to end my life. That's depression for you.

But here, I was somewhat interested. I wasn't foaming with rage at seeing her. I didn't want to throttle her, or grab her and shake her and scream, "WHY?", as I had while I was still alive. Was I still alive anyway? Was I already dead, and this limbo or whatever it was? Yelling at a figment of my soon to be extinct imagination seemed even more sad than ending it all in the first place. I mean, what would be the point?

"I feel like I should be angrier at seeing you," I ventured, after taking another large sip of the beer. Yeah, definitely tasted right.

She shrugged. "Yes, well, this place it... dampens emotions, I'm told. Makes it easier to have a conversation. Answer questions. Without all the emotion and anger. You still have the emotions, just... not as sharp. Not so that it will stop you being able to process the answers. Frankly, I think this ability back in the world would be awesome but..." She shrugged again.

Well, I wasn't about to not ask the obvious questions. "Who told you? Where is this place? Some kind of afterlife?"

She shrugged again. "I can't tell you who..." then seeing my expression she added, "no, I don't mean I won't, I mean I can't. I don't know how I know, I just... know. It's hard to explain. There's some knowledge I have and some... well, I don't."

"Where have you been? Is there afterlife after all?" I asked, curious. I mean, it was all a figment of my own last milliseconds, obviously. But I was interested to see what my own subconscious would throw at me. Would it come up with something I had not already thought of consciously?

"Like I said, I can't tell you. I have no memories before now. Well... some vague stuff. But as to explaining what happens post death, can't help you. Not sure I'd want to if I did," she said, with a mischievous smile. She did that a lot. Lead you on, teasing you. Never a direct statement, just lots of hints and roundabout, watching you work things out for yourself. It drove me up the wall when we were married and alive. Now... I kind of missed it.

She watched me, watching my reaction.

I smiled. "Typical."

She laughed gently back. "Wouldn't do you any good anyway, right? I mean, you are at the instant of death anyway. Not like you could take back the news?"

Interesting. She knew my circumstances.

"You know why I'm here?"

"Well, sort of. I know your situation, yes. The knowledge is just... there. And honestly, Olly, I'm so sad. I know I don't show it as you'd expect. Mitigating emotions and all that, but trust me, I am. That my behavior could drive you to that. I am extremely distraught. You'll have to trust me on that."

"Why do you think I am here?" I asked, taking another sip.

"Ah, now that I can help with. You are here to learn, and make a decision."

"Learn what?"

She simply said, "Why."

I put the beer back down and looked around. All the indistinct forms were not paying attention to us. Still, even if they were, there was nothing I could do about it.

"Why do you think I want to know?" I asked, knowing it was a stupid statement, but wanting to be at least a little contrary.

"Because I would. And because I know you. And because you are here in the first place. Obviously, this matters way more than you would like to admit, because I'm here to talk to you. And you've gone to some rather extreme lengths to get here."

"That wasn't my plan," I mentioned, tiredly. This had all the hallmarks of one of those conversations that go on all night, long after the wine is gone, where people are letting their drunk speak for them, getting wilder and wilder in their statements the later it gets.

"No, I'm sure it wasn't. But here we are, having this conversation."

I snorted. "Sure we are. Moment of death and weird hallucinations are hardly the place to really learn. Anything I learn from you I already know, because you are just my about-to-be-mashed-up brain trying to make sense of its last milliseconds."

She smiled at me, sadly. "Yes, that sounds like something you'd say. So, oh, I don't know. Ask me something you couldn't possibly know? I'll answer and then you can..." she suddenly fell silent, understanding what she'd just suggested. I wasn't going to be checking out anything she might tell me. She looked embarrassed and looked down, then eyes peeked up, head still looking down, classic Lady Di pose.

"Look, I can't make you believe this is real," she started, tilting her head. "But you can ask and I can answer and you can decide whether to believe me or not. And you may well hear things you never knew or might even have dreamed were possible. I don't know."

"Whatever," I said, dismissively, shrugging at her. This really wasn't worth taking seriously. The last beer was nice though.

"We are here, Olly, and you aren't going anywhere right now, so might as well make the most of it."

I took another long sip. Just needed some silence.

"Okay then. Suppose I believe you, for arguments sake."

"That's the Olly I know. Open minded to a fault," she muttered quietly, sarcastically.

I sighed. "Look, I don't know what happens if I get up and go to the door, but..."

"No," she said, hastily. "Sorry. I'm just... well, we have stuff to cover."

"What decision do I have to make?" I asked, trying to get back on track.

"We'll get to that," she replied, waving a hand in the air. The very definition of Hand Wavey. She knew that drove me up the wall, which is why I suspect she did it. She couldn't help pressing my buttons when she was alive, so why would it be any different when she was dead?

The upside of her triggering me in our marriage was that she could also press other buttons, if you get my drift. And did. Often. The down was worth the up, in my opinion. That's why what she did was so hard to deal with.

"First, there are some other, well, not exactly rules just... things to know."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes. You can't lie here. Not lie exactly. Well, yes, lie. But also... you can't hide behind half-truths or lies of omission. When you know a truth, you are compelled to say it."

I snorted again. What a bullshit rule. Rules like that would start World War Three in like twenty minutes flat. As a society we lie for a reason, and that's to keep civilization together. From "Does my ass look big in this?" via "What did your mother say about my sister?" to "Did you assassinate our head of state?" There are some things people don't want a truthful answer to, for want of what they would be forced to do if they did know.