Pity

“This dark world we live in now, eh?” I asked Emily. She shrugs.

“I dunno, Alex. I mean, this is the only world I’ve ever known.”

“Well, my father told me, he said ‘did you know that people used to punish people who blew up buildings?’ I never knew that.” Emily looked thoughtful.

“Yeah, that’s pretty far out. You say America used to have people who blew themselves up?”

“Yeah…”

“Well, I think it’s better this way. Less suicide.” I felt a sick feeling roll around in my stomach, but said nothing. These days in America, we’re supposed to talk about our feelings. I, for one, don’t.

I hate the way that, half the time, people look at me with these pitying glances. But I’ve never voiced that. Those people out there born with two arms, they love pity. They bathe in pity. But I was only born with one. And pity is my nemesis, rather than my lover.

And in this world, the only way to earn a place is to blow up a city, somewhere in the world.

So that’s what I’m going to do.

I’m going to blow a fucking city into the sky. The only question is, the question that’s been tormenting me for two years, is which one? I’ve already decided to blow up a city in America. It’s perfectly legal, it’s just frowned upon. And I’m already frowned upon.

I don’t say any of this. I stay silent, silent within my head.

“So, Alex, what’re your plans for the weekend?”

“Uh... I’m busy. You know my parents, all over the, uh, chores and stuff.” She squints.

“Okay then.” I can tell she doesn’t believe my pathetic lie. At least I never told her that my parents were blown up five years ago. I’m fifteen. I’ve been living without my parents for five years. Never told anyone, because again, I hate pity.

An idea hits me like a bomb to the face. I knew which city to blow up, now.

Sure, it was halfway across the country from California where I am now. But I could get there. I already had the bomb built. All I needed was a plane...

No one flies commercial aircraft anymore, even just flying from one place to another. We fly in bomber planes. So I get on my father’s old bomber and I get in the pilot seat. I’ve gotten good enough that I don’t need a copilot. I take off, and I take a small amount of pride in it. I’ve won several plane races, and every time, it gives me immense satisfaction to say “I beat you singlehandedly.” Because not only is it true, it pisses them off like hornets whose nest has just been whacked. Yet they never try anything. Out of pity, that awful, awful word, that awful, awful feeling. Have I mentioned that I hate pity? Yes, I have.

I arrive at Washington, D.C. in just under 30 minutes. Direct flights are fast, these days. I park my plane on a nearby runway, although with my level of skill, I could have parked it in a parking lot. The White House was in sight, and I grinned. I planted my massive bomb in the lawn, then ran around like a maniac trying to plant all off the others around the city. I made it safely back to the plane before I hit the detonate button, and I flew off without looking back. It was time for a new ruler.

I am home safe now, watching the news of the event.

“A terrible tragedy has befallen this nation. Washington D.C., home to the president of the United States, has suffered a devastating attack. It is presumed to be foreign. The president was unharmed, but half the city has been leveled.” I smashed a fist into the television.

You only blew up half the city? I demanded to myself angrily. Damn it. I had tried so hard, only to fail. Now I fucking pitied myself.

A knock at the door.

“Yes, Emily?” I ask, opening it. She looks at me.

“It was you, wasn’t it?” I don’t answer, but that in itself is answer enough. “My God, Alex. You didn’t even manage to kill the president!”

I had to slam the door so she didn’t hear me scream.