Mr.Wilson

Two men were sitting in a room. The conversation was tense, well, for one of the men.

" But Mr. Wilson!" a young man pleaded.

" What do you want, Coran?" An old man walked through his study with a mysterious bottle.

"Sir, I want to live." The young man said, shaking in a chair he had been strapped to. He began to cry as the older man walked in slow circles around the room.

" Well, you can't. One day we'll all die sometime, so what's the point in trying to stay alive if you don't have anything to live for anyway?"

" But, Mr.Wilson, I have a wife and children!" his tear-filled eyes locked on to the older man, hoping that the look on his face would change the mind of his captor.

" Yeah? Well, where are they?” he raised his arms, looking around the room he locked them in, “ oh yeah, that's right. Your wife left you and took those freaks of nature with her. I bet they don't even miss you."

"How could you say something like that sir?"

"Easy, I just open my mouth, and words leave my lips."

"Well, have you ever tried holding your tongue?! -sir." he looked down to avoid the gaze of the man, wishing that he himself had held his tongue.

"Yeah, I tried that once. I ended up losing my leg” he pulled up his left pant leg, revealing a wooden prosthetic, “so I guess you can't always fight with silence; can you Mr.Coran?" Mr. Coran had no words to respond, already afraid he’d sealed his fate with his last comment. He decided to keep his head down and hope that someone would find them before it’s too late.

Mr. Wilson walked over to the door to his study and shut it and locked the door. shutting the windows, blocking the space underneath the door with towels while Coran sat anxiously waiting. Coran was thinking of ways to get out because if he didn't, he'd be dead alongside his boss.

Mr.Wilson picked up a glass and walked over to a hollow glode with alcohol hidden inside, pouring himself a glass of bourbon.

“ This life I’ve lived was nothing but a waste of time.” sauntered over to his desk, he dropped his body into the chair, taking another swig of his glass, “ Do you know how it feels to have everything and feel nothing, Mr. Coran?”

Coran looked up defeated, meeting Mr.Wilson’s gaze,

“ No sir, I don’t.”

“ LIES!” he shouts, throwing his glass at the wall as it shatters on impact. As the bourbon drips down the wall, Mr.Wilson slumps back in his chair, “ I suppose I should start the gas. What do you think, Mr.Coran?”

Coran started to cry once again, “ Sir, please. I don’t want to die here.”

“ Where do you want to die, Coran?” he growled.

“ I don’t know, sir. Maybe when I’m old, with my family surrounding my bedside.”

“ What family? The wife that cheated on you with a jew?”

“ Sir, please don’t talk about my wife that way- secondly, I’m not anti-Semitic, I have no ill will toward Jewish people.”

“HA! No ill will. That’s your problem! You have no conviction- no anger. Nothing drives you! That’s why you ended up with me.”

Coran wanted to speak against the assumption but he didn’t have the straight too. He looked toward the ceiling and noticed that has had been running through a pipe the whole time, it was only a matter of time before the both of them slip away.

“ What’s wrong, Coran? Not enough energy?” he started to chuckle, “ Do you want to say goodbye to anyone? Your ‘family’ maybe?”

“ Sir, please don’t mock me. I may not have anything, unlike you, but I do have something you don’t.”

Mr. Wilson leaned back and gave a belly laugh, “Please don’t tell me you’re going to say love! Who loves you, Coran? Who?”

“ Why are you being so cruel, sir?”

“ I’m not cruel. I’m realistic.” he got up once more to grab a second glass, “ would you like a drink?”

“ I can’t drink it, sir.”

“Oh. I guess you’re right.” he chuckled.