I CAN HEAR MY heartbeat. I can hear it in my ears. It’s not really my heartbeat—I know that—just blood flow near the ear or in the neck. Pulsatile tinnitus. It could be anything: ear blockage, arterial disease, high blood pressure, or just a change in awareness. You just notice it and it becomes impossible to ignore. They’re dead. He killed two people right in front of me.
I read about a radio announcer who was literally losing his mind because of it. Constant whooshing, every second of every minute of every hour. He was on the verge of suicide. I understand the urge. I might choose to kill myself if the man in charge lets me, but he won’t. He wants me to look at it, his art, his handiwork. They’re just lying there, both of them facedown, blood pooling under their heads. They would drown in their own blood if they weren’t already dead.
I can’t remember what happened to the radio announcer. I think he found a doctor who could fix it, eventually. Maybe not. Maybe he killed himself. Am I in shock? Is that what this is? It feels like an out-of-body experience. No, the opposite. It feels like I’m inhabiting my body for the very first time. Like I’m trying it on, putting on a new suit. My hands are numb, my legs heavy. I feel the cold air from the ceiling vent, the hair on my arms standing up in response. Thousands of minuscule muscles attached to every hair follicle. That whooshing sound repeating itself. I didn’t do this. I didn’t kill these people. This wasn’t me.
—Samaritan, if you stick with that catatonic routine, I’ll shoot you in the leg and watch you bleed like the idiot behind you. Oh, and you still have to pick who dies. Now, what’s the fucking question?
What have I done? I just watched them die. I didn’t actually watch, but I stood by and did nothing to stop it. It’s real. They’re dead. This isn’t a dream I will wake up from. He shot them in the head. He was looking at me.
—Samaritan! Snap out of it!
Do what he says.
—Question . . . seven. Which stories are associated with Geoffrey Chaucer?
—We did that one, Samaritan.
—We didn’t— There wasn’t enough—
—Do you know the answer?
—I . . . Yes. It’s—
—I don’t care what it is! If you know the answer, why are you asking me? This is your fucking test. You think I like answering stupid questions? I’m doing all of this for you! Next.
Canterbury Tales. Swipe left. There is blood on the test room window. Splatter from . . . He shot these two people while talking to me. He was having a conversation; we were. I didn’t volunteer for it, but we were talking. Then he killed two people. No, not two people, he killed . . . Graham. That was his name. And Andrew An—Andrew. They had families, maybe. Girlfriends. They had . . . dreams, and wants. They worried about . . . money, or . . . They had plans, things they were excited about. He shot them. They’re . . . gone. They don’t exist anymore. I watched it happen.
—Hellooo!
—Question eight. True or false. You must treat everyone equally, regardless of sex, race, age, religion, disability, class, or sexual orientation.
—False.
—I don’t think—
Stop talking. You’ll just make it worse.
—What? You think that’s true? Don’t tell me you actually buy that rubbish?
—Well, yes. I do. I think everyone should have the same rights.
I don’t know why I just said that. I don’t need to prove myself to him. I should just keep my mouth shut and let him win. What am I thinking? He’s not winning anything. There’s nothing to win, nothing to be gained here. I don’t seriously expect to convince him of anything, and even if I did, he would still be . . . what he is. Why did I take a stand on a theoretical question? Maybe it’s not him I’m trying to convince.
—Fine, give everyone the same rights. That wasn’t the question.
He’s right. You must treat everyone the same, equally. Why did I feel the need to argue with him about this?
—Do you treat everyone the same, Samaritan? Regardless of—what was the first one? Sex? I’ll tell you right now, Samaritan, you don’t. Ever told a man his trousers make him look thinner? Told your son his outfit was too revealing? Do you allow yourself an opinion on whether he should work or stay at home when he grows up? I don’t think you do.
I don’t care what he thinks of me. I don’t need to show him that I’m a good person, but maybe . . .
—How about your wife? Do you love your wife? Would you still love her if she was born a man? Think about it. Same person, same . . . history together. You meet her, same place, same day. You do the same things together, develop the same feelings. Then you find out she was born with different plumbing. Would she still be your wife? How open-minded are you feeling right now?
Maybe I need to prove it to myself. Maybe there’s a part of me that wants, needs to preserve whatever sense of self I have, a part of me that wants to get out of this with my morals unscathed.
—Let’s talk about race. You said you’re from Iran. How many Arab friends did you have back home? Age? Whatever. Religion, well, you know you don’t treat every religion the same. I’m pretty sure you’d have reacted differently if I’d walked in here screaming Allahu Akbar. I guarantee you the folks outside the building would have.
Maybe . . . that’s why I didn’t choose.
—You can fool yourself into thinking you’re this great unprejudiced, moral being, but you can’t fool me. I know you, Samaritan. I know you better than you know yourself. Think of your son kissing another man, breathing heavy while he grabs the man’s cock.
Did I get someone killed just so I could take the moral high ground? Am I so petty? I’m not a killer. I know that. I don’t need to prove myself.
—Uh-oh! I might be wrong, Samaritan, but I think your friend there is a goner.
My friend? Baseball Cap. Is he dead? His eyes are still open, but he’s not moving. I should check on him. The man in charge won’t stop me. He wants me to know if he’s dead. He wants me to know I couldn’t save him. . . . I can’t feel a pulse.
—And? No? I’m sorry, Samaritan. It looks like you wasted a perfectly good shirt.
No heartbeat. Silence. Emptiness . . . I did what I could. I did. There was no way to save him. He would have died sooner without my help. I tried. That’s what counts. If I hadn’t helped . . . The man in charge would have picked someone else if I hadn’t helped. He’d be toying with that other person instead of me. I don’t care. I don’t regret it. I won’t regret trying to help someone. I made that choice. Me. I chose to help.
—Tick-tock, tick-tock. One minute to go. Wanna do one more question before we get back to work?
Play along. Make him think he owns you.
—Yes, sir . . . Question nine. In what year was slavery abolished in the British Empire?
—I know that, it’s— Wait! I’m being rude. I should give you a chance to answer. Do you know?
—I think it’s 1833.
—Correct! Except for whatever the East India Company was doing. Had to keep that trade going. Did you know that for a good twenty-five years before that, you couldn’t buy or sell people, but you could still own them? Imagine that. “Honey, I think we should sell Jules. NO! That would be barbaric! Now go plough the field, Jules, or you’ll get the whip.” But not you, though. I bet you’d have treated your slaves real well, Samaritan.
I don’t care what he says. I don’t care what he thinks of me. I can choose to help people. I may not be able to save everyone, but I can make sure as few people die as possible, even if it means doing what he says. The man in charge. He said it himself. He is doing the killing. I only choose who lives. It may not feel honourable, but I can help. I can save lives.
—Fifteen minutes already! Damn! Time flies when you’re having fun. Are you ready, Samaritan? We have work to do.
I am ready. I can save one person by playing his game. Saving one person is more important than my ego, whatever feeling of guilt I may have. Life trumps feelings. I choose life.
—Let’s see. . . . How about . . . this guy right here. Yes, you, sir. Come on up.
—Please, no! Please! Please!
He is doing this, not me.
—Good! You want to live! Then you’ll be happy if he doesn’t pick you! You know I don’t decide. He does!
He’s pointing at me.