giftedcherub
“By my estimate,” said the man he called Tom, “you have a good half hour left to live.”
He said nothing, only sat on his toilet seat and stared. The reek rising from beneath him reminded him of America - it stank, but it was his own.
Tom was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, journal in hand as always, yellowed pages filled in neat tiny copperplate calculating his death.
“What do you want to do?” Tom asked.
“Wait,” he said.
They’d first met when he was twenty. Tom had materialized out of nowhere and he had been a scared, stuttering kid. “Everything your heart desires,” Tom had proclaimed. And he’d been true to his word.
But there was a catch (isn’t there always one?) - “For every wish I grant,” Tom had said in passing as he disappeared, “I take six months of your life.”
He’d been given a year to mull over this, and he had his answer by the end of it. At 21, with a childhood of being a mediocre nobody living in Nowhere (Population: 2024) behind you, and burning ambition coursing through your veins, life seems overrated. At 42, with everything your heart ever desired at your beck, it seems less so.
“Now don’t you try to con me,” Tom had warned. “Eternal life and the ilk are a strict no-no. Rules say I grant you only material contentment.”
They shook hands. Tom had broken into a shiny new journal then, and written his name firmly in indelible ink on the flyleaf.
How he hated that journal.
“This here’s a record of your wishes,” Tom drawled. “And when time comes, I’ll tell you you’re gonna die.” And every time Tom whipped out that journal, he’d break out into cold sweat.
He didn’t know what Tom was - djinn, angel… perhaps Lucifer himself. He’d never asked. Truth was, Tom terrified him. The only question he’d tried asking was “How long do I have?” to which Tom would sieve through his journal and smile his ghost smile. “I’ve given you everything,” he’d say through his cigar. “Don’t you trust me?”
“You’ve had it all - money, fame, women,” Tom’s voice seemed tinged with sadness. “But you could’ve been so much more… I could’ve been so much more.”
He said nothing, only flushed away the last dregs of his waste.
Tom continued. “But then there’s only so much you can expect of a small-town boy. Now take Alexander - he wished too much, but ah! his victories…”
Tom sighed and looked at his watch. “It’s time.”
A fierce reckless rush hit him just as his heart began to slow. “You can’t kill me Colonel Tom Parker.” He gritted his teeth and started for the door, crawling naked as Tom watched. “I’m… the… king…”
Tom checked the headlines of The Times as he walked home the next morning from a night of mourning. “ELVIS,” they screamed, “HAS LEFT THE BUILDING.” He opened his journal to the last page and smiled his ghost smile.
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He said nothing, only sat on his toilet seat and stared. The reek rising from beneath him reminded him of America - it stank, but it was his own.
Tom was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, journal in hand as always, yellowed pages filled in neat tiny copperplate calculating his death.
“What do you want to do?” Tom asked.
“Wait,” he said.
They’d first met when he was twenty. Tom had materialized out of nowhere and he had been a scared, stuttering kid. “Everything your heart desires,” Tom had proclaimed. And he’d been true to his word.
But there was a catch (isn’t there always one?) - “For every wish I grant,” Tom had said in passing as he disappeared, “I take six months of your life.”
He’d been given a year to mull over this, and he had his answer by the end of it. At 21, with a childhood of being a mediocre nobody living in Nowhere (Population: 2024) behind you, and burning ambition coursing through your veins, life seems overrated. At 42, with everything your heart ever desired at your beck, it seems less so.
“Now don’t you try to con me,” Tom had warned. “Eternal life and the ilk are a strict no-no. Rules say I grant you only material contentment.”
They shook hands. Tom had broken into a shiny new journal then, and written his name firmly in indelible ink on the flyleaf.
How he hated that journal.
“This here’s a record of your wishes,” Tom drawled. “And when time comes, I’ll tell you you’re gonna die.” And every time Tom whipped out that journal, he’d break out into cold sweat.
He didn’t know what Tom was - djinn, angel… perhaps Lucifer himself. He’d never asked. Truth was, Tom terrified him. The only question he’d tried asking was “How long do I have?” to which Tom would sieve through his journal and smile his ghost smile. “I’ve given you everything,” he’d say through his cigar. “Don’t you trust me?”
“You’ve had it all - money, fame, women,” Tom’s voice seemed tinged with sadness. “But you could’ve been so much more… I could’ve been so much more.”
He said nothing, only flushed away the last dregs of his waste.
Tom continued. “But then there’s only so much you can expect of a small-town boy. Now take Alexander - he wished too much, but ah! his victories…”
Tom sighed and looked at his watch. “It’s time.”
A fierce reckless rush hit him just as his heart began to slow. “You can’t kill me Colonel Tom Parker.” He gritted his teeth and started for the door, crawling naked as Tom watched. “I’m… the… king…”
Tom checked the headlines of The Times as he walked home the next morning from a night of mourning. “ELVIS,” they screamed, “HAS LEFT THE BUILDING.” He opened his journal to the last page and smiled his ghost smile.
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