The first time I didn't kill someone, I was 11. I still stand by the fact that it IS NOT ME. If anyone is left without a parent, or a sibling, or a friend, it's not my problem. Sometimes, bad things happen, you know, and who are you gonna blame? Monsters? Aliens? God? Whatever your list is, Otto Luck is NOT ON IT.

That day, Mrs. Aguilar was passing back our tests for 5th period science. Patricia had taken one look at her grade and groaned, head in hands.

"What's wrong, Trish?" I'd asked.

"Nothing. Just -- Nothing. Oh crap, my parents are going to kill me. Can you kill me first, Otto?"

"Trish, you'll be fine," I had said exasperatedly. "One bad grade isn't going to change your life."

How wrong I was.

"Just make sure to do it fast. Nothing painful or anything."

"Okay, whatever. You're ridiculous." Just to make her shut up; I didn’t like her joking about dying. And she had looked so sad. She was really pretty when she smiled, and I thought maybe it would make her feel better if I joked along with her.

Six hours later, her parents called the cops, worried for their daughter who still wasn't home. Nine hours later, she was found. Two hundred and eighty-four hours later, the funeral was held.

Apparently it was sudden cardiac arrest. If it was any consolation, the doctors said, she didn't suffer.

I didn't figure it out until the second time. It was just a stupid argument. It probably started with a TV show or some other pointless teenage angst, I don't know. All I know is after several expletives and one unhinged, hateful, "I wish you were dead!" my mom slipped on the floor and the kitchen knife in her hand spun and spun the light catching on its edge glinting like a shooting star falling to the earth god it was beautiful

It was an accident, that much was true. But the difference between true and truth is like the difference between a beating heart and blood pooling on the kitchen floor.

I couldn't live with myself, though. A few years later, I told a therapist everything.

"Okay, what you're going through is a common thing. Many people suffer from the same condition, Otto. It's called survivor's guilt."

"I wish that squirrel outside exploded into a million pieces," I'd responded. I would've given him a nicer example if he hadn't been so condescending. The government was knocking on my door shortly after.

It's been four targets so far. Not people, but targets. Something about that puts a chill down my spine. Something it does to you, the knowledge that someone is dead because of you. The latest one, I didn't even feel anything but resignation. Maybe that's why so many people are dying lately. We've gone from fists to rocks, from rocks to clubs, from clubs to swords, from swords to guns, from guns to bombs. The farther away, the easier it is to make someone kill.

I still have a choice, though. Still one out.

Maybe Patricia had the right idea all along. She just had the wrong person.