text: I also might be dead, which is its own freedom in a sense. I almost didn’t check anything at all. The movie was late, I was tired and more than a little high, and I was feeling just enough of a buzz to feel young and reckless and indestructible. Twenty five going on forever. But my roommate was out of town, and I was no hero. So, gulping Cool Blue Gatorare like an overzealous Little Leaguer, I shuffled to the guest bedroom, flicked on the lights, opened the bathroom door. Clear. Checked the guest closet: clear. Groaning, flattened myself on the ground and checked under the bed. I wasn’t sure if anyone could fit under there, but if I was doing it, might as well commit. Hall closet, my shower, my closet: not a soul to be found. Marinading in the privacy of my own embarrassment, I stuffed my toothbrush into my mouth. It was because of that single moment when Jonah had held out the joint, and I, a slave to my casual nonchalance, accepted it with only the slightest hesitation even though I really didn’t want any more, that I crossed the line from fine to moderately stoned. And it was because of that buzz that I didn’t notice that in brushing my teeth I had allowed my own foamy spit to seep onto my fingers. And it was because I didn’t notice that foamy spit that my phone slipped from my fingers as I pilgrimaged to my bed. And then, upon kneeling down to grope under my bed for the piece of shit that had gotten me in enough trouble already, I looked into the abyss. And the abyss was wearing Warby Parkers. “What the fuck?” I was standing now. So was my unexpected companion who I had temporarily dubbed the Scary Guy. Scary Guy wasn’t visually scary, as he was shorter than I was and was wearing Crocs. “Hi.” “Hi. Who the fuck are you?” “I’m Kyle. I was going to kill you.” \*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\*\* “Milk? Honey?” “Just a splash of milk, please.” Kyle settled down at the table, knife in hand. I slid his earl grey over to him. We eyed each other. Me, regarding him with terror. Him, regarding me with interest. We had been over the basics: he had warned me not to scream, or he would stab me. He warned me not to try to call the police, or he would stab me. He said this as a matter of fact, not a threat, which was both comforting and terrifying, a perfect encapsulation of his overall vibe. “So what now?” “I’m not sure. I’ve really never been caught before.” Kyle sipped thoughtfully, itching his temple with the knife. “Can I ask you not to kill me?” “You’ve seen my face.” “Yea, but what am I going to do? Call the cops and say, ‘this man was about to kill me but because I caught him under the bed, he decided not to? No officer, he didn’t even touch me?’ I don’t even know how you got in.” “Trade secret.” “Fair.” I squeezed my mug, the porcelain burning my hands. This was a good sign. If he was going to kill me anyway, he might as well tell me how he got in. My phone was in his pocket. There was no landline. Could I overpower him? “Don’t you want to know why?” “Why what?” “Why I was going to kill you.” A thought that had genuinely not occurred to me, concerned more with the knife going into my body rather than questioning its motives. “I mean I guess so.” “You can ask.” “Kind of seems like you want me to ask.” “Doesn’t really matter to me either way. You’re going to be dead anyway.” I took a deep breath. Perhaps Kyle was committed. Perhaps I could talk this way out of this.” “Okay. Why were you going to kill me?” And he told me. He told me about how he’d seen me eat an entire pack of saltines on the subway while trying to hide it. He told me how he followed me home and began to watch me. He told me how he had made a habit out of killing genuinely sad people, his form of unconsensual mercy killings. “Look. You’re wealthy. Successful. Good looking. You seem to have friends. Decently healthy lifestyle. You seem to be doing everything right. So if you can’t be fucking happy with all these wonderful things and resources...” He trailed off, shrugging apologetically. I stared at him. With anyone else, Iw ould have thought it was an elaborate joke. A fucked up prank show, a twisted practical joke from Casey. But surprisingly, I trusted Kyle. “My life was so hopeless that you thought you’d be doing me a service by murdering me with a paring knife?” There was pity in Kyle’s eyes. He was certifiably insane, about to kill a stranger with a paring knife, and wearing fucking crocs in my well-appointed yet humble West Village apartment, and he pitied me. “Yes.” And it was the way he looked at me then, with honesty and sympathy and with complete conviction in his own fucked-up morals, that made me issue a proposal. And he countered and we bartered and negotiated and debated and pleaded a little (me) and in the end hashed out our arrangement. Kyle would not kill me. Yet. He would stick around and monitor my happiness, checking in periodically. In one year, we would reassess. And he would either kill me, or he wouldn’t. There was no point in going to the police; Kyle revealed that he’d been in my apartment no fewer than a dozen times, and the local brass weren’t exactly known for their proactivity. Kyle was a man of his word. He promised he would help me find my passion, as he had found his own passion of euthanizing the depressed. And with that, our life together began.