Dead Matter
By Jeffrey S. Callico


I am not going to kill you but keep in mind that when you die -- and you will of course -- you will never know what happened. So just because I am telling you now that I will not kill you could be a falsehood in the end.

There are some things I tell people and others I say to no one. But it is you I am speaking to now. Just you. Look at me when I speak. Look me in the eyes and stop squirming. The post isn’t going anywhere and your wrists can only take so much.

Our lives can only take so much.

Now that is profound. Isn’t it. Very, if I say so my little self. You’re a little self, too, so I know you can understand. But wait. You’re a smaller self than I. Much smaller. Your little self is so much tinier than mine has ever been or ever will be. Yes, I know the future of self. I know the future of my self and of your self, so don’t worry about that part. We have other things that concern us. Well, I should say -- you. Things that concern you.

First thing. You are nothing to me. Your face is blank. It is like a blank space on a screen and I can barely look at it. Your face is an it. You are an it. That is why your tiny self -- much tinier than mine, remember -- is nothing but dead matter. As they seem to say, Man cannot create or destroy matter. But you are matter that is dead. Although I will not kill you, it is evident to me that you being matter neither created nor destroyed, represent matter that can be classified as something separate from all other matter.

Face it, you brought this on yourself.

So then, time to start wrapping this up, as again they seem to say. Are your knees hurting much yet? I hope so. That’s part of all of this, you know. Yes, I know you know that, I just wanted you to hear me say it. Should I tell you again? I can if you want me to.

No?

Well, then.

Watch me as I stand before you, holding nothing in my hands. No knife, no weapon of any kind. Well, my hands could be weapons but I am telling you now that they are not. They are only my hands and currently, as you can see, they are at my sides -- harmless beasts that may or may not carry rage inside them. Ah, these hands of mine. Don’t they look calm to you? Yes, of course they do. But what damage they could do to you. What damage indeed.

But please.

These hands are nothing to you. So is my mouth and so are my words. As I said -- I am not going to kill you.

Do you believe me? Do you?

I need to hear you say it.


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Jeffrey S. Callico hails from Atlanta. His collection of short fiction, Fighting Off The Sun: Stories, Tales, and Other Matters of Opinion, is available on Amazon. He has appeared in several online literary journals, including FRiGG, Johnny America, Dispatch, Origami Condom, Calliope Nerve, The Legendary, Full of Crow, Callused Hands, Not From Here, Are You? and most recently at Spoken War and Opium Poetry 2.0.