It was while dying on the wet pavement behind the neighborhood's 7-11 that I saw Dionysus — he towered above me, a chuckle already on the edge of his tongue. I suppose he found me funny — or, at least, capable of such — because he sat on top of a rancid dumpster and declared: "Make me laugh, and I shall spare your life."

"Then I'm going to need a gold coin," I choked out, "because I'm really not in the mood to tell any jokes."

The god of wine simply raised a brow and waited. The thought crossed my mind to stay silent, wait for the apparition to vanish — but if he was a god, and not the hallucination of a dying man, then it probably wouldn't be best to keep him waiting.

"Why," I finally said, "am I the one dying when you literally have the word 'die' in your name?"

The silence that followed left me wondering if I was already dead, until — "That wasn't funny."

I let out a long, slow sigh, lungs rattling as if I had just finished a marathon. "I know, I know. Can you blame me? I mean, I know they said that the death of comedy is on the horizon, but I never realized that actually meant, y'know, dying."

"Are you trying to make me kill you faster?"

"I don't know; it depends." I twisted my head around a bit, trying to lock eyes with whatever shape was Dionysus. "Does good ol' Hades care for a couple of jokes?"

Slowly, slowly, Dionysus began to chuckle; the sound echoed around the alley, and would've given me chills if I didn't already feel as cold as the grave. Did I say something funny? I didn't think so. I don't think I want to know.

"Good enough," the god declares. "But if you don't have anything better tomorrow — well." Blinding light etches itself into my eyelids — when did I close my eyes? — and I hear the screeching sound of tires. "You might be able to get your answer yourself."

"Tomorrow?" I asked, faintly, but the only response is the muttering of voices around me, and an entombing, unsettling darkness.

“Karma’s gonna catch you,” my sister said. Her face was stained with tears, glistening in the dark room; they fell upon the remnants of the light bulb at her feet, nearly invisible. What really stood out to me, though, was her grimace; she looked angry, and she looked frustrated, and she looked so, so sad. “Karma’s gonna track you down and make sure you pay for everything you ever did.” She looked at me with such certainty that I felt a twinge of fear.

Then our mother walked in, smelling of cheap alcohol, and demanded to know why my sister had broken the light, and I laughed and laughed and never got caught.

To say I was a bad person would be wrong. I simply learned how to play karma like a fiddle, exacting it on everyone but myself. My mother spent all her time out, so I spent all her money on whatever I pleased. My sister tried to take her place, so I made sure she took the blame for anything I did. The cycle only ended when my mother stopped coming back. Some would call that karma, but for me it was simply inevitable.

My sister sat me down. She was older now. I was older too, old enough for her to justify making me leave. We both knew that wouldn’t happen; despite everything, she still held some sort of love for me, being the only family she had left.

“Did you do that?” she said, her voice tense. She pointed at the television. It screamed back at us. TERRY MILLER KILLED IN CAR ACCIDENT, shouted the local news. BROTHER GRIEVES. SQUIRRELS LIVING IN ATTICS: PROBLEMS OR PETS? MORE AT SEVEN.

“I think there’s a squirrel living in our attic,” I told her. Karma, of course; I had let the squirrel in. My sister didn’t take care of the house well enough; the ceiling sagged, and the lights always flickered.

“Did you do that?” she pleaded again. My sister was white-faced, terrified. “Did you kill him?”

Terry Miller and his brother walked into the auto-shop I worked in. The owner was in the back, fixing the light he believed had broken on its own. I watched Terry as he dragged his brother throughout the shop. He had dated my sister once. Finally, he came to me, forcing his brother to explain how the scratch on his car appeared. I remember my sister bringing him home. His brother looked miserable. She had looked miserable, too, and told me never to go near him. I told Terry I’d fix his car myself.

No one could claim I had no sense of empathy, nor a lack of love for my sister. I was only making sure retribution was paid. “Karma caught him,” I told her, and the next day she was gone. Karma for loving him, I suppose, or karma for ever thinking she could take care of us all.

Karma could never catch me, I always claimed. So I can’t explain what caused me to wake up to the sound of glass breaking, of footsteps racing upstairs. I turned on the lights just in time to see Terry Miller’s brother come storming into my rotting room, drunk and angry with tears staining his face. He waved his gun around wildly before finally settling on me, standing frozen before him in fear. The only sound louder than my heartbeat was the squirrel's feet scampering above us.

“Karma’s gonna catch you,” he said. He grinned. “And I play karma like a fiddle.” I put my hands up in a gesture of peace, searching for the words to calm him down--

And then the lights went off, and he laughed and laughed until I couldn’t hear him anymore.