No Spit in My Teeth

The package arrives as inconspicuously as something dropping from the sky might. It is wrapped in plain brown paper, and no address or return information is provided. At first, you think it must be a mistake. Undoubtedly, modern technology can be fallible. Nothing has been ordered, not even so much as a pizza. Curiosity gets the best of you, as it always does, and you find yourself unwrapping it at the kitchen table, emptied of everything save overdue bill notices, these you have purposefully left unopened. The contents are startling. The box is large though it weighs very little. Encased inside careful styrofoam packaging is a single, loaded pistol. You know very little about weapons, but the note tells you everything you need to know. It is a singular, typed note that reads:

"There are over 7 billion people in this world. Your job is to get rid of one. Choose either personal or political. You have three days. The enclosed weapon is loaded and needs only one arm to fire. If you fail in your mission, you will face a similar fate. With kind regards, M.E."

You are aghast, wishing you had left the package to the same fate as your bills. It must be a joke. You have never hurt anyone in your life, and there is no desire to take action against either friend or foe. Surely this delivery is a mistake. You make few waves in this world, working, sleeping, and occasionally googling the responsibilities of cat ownership before deciding the work outweighs the reward. You return the note to the package, never removing the pistol. You go to bed. You wake up and go to work. Twenty-four hours pass and the box remains stagnant on the table, silently awaiting action.

Sincerely, M.E. You try to think of anyone you know with these initials. There's a cousin in Fort Lauderdale, perhaps even her husband. You hadn't heard from them since the last holiday you attended, before the pandemic, when you learned how much you enjoy isolation. You scour the internet for drone delivery services. Experimental food delivery and large warehouse corporations make the top of the list. Even your neighbors could barely utter a word about you, nevertheless a service reaching every square mile of town. You question your sanity. Perhaps the box isn't even real, and you are having an extended nightmare, brought on by a consciousness seeking excitement outside the office, shower, eat routine you keep so steadfastly. Twenty-four more hours pass, and you have taken the note out twice more to read, with no better inclination as to its origins or purpose.

On the third day, you feel an odd pressure in your stomach when you wake up. You decide not to go to work today. You cannot fathom pulling the trigger on a loaded weapon, and you have such ineffective feelings toward your own life and politics that both purported actions seem meaningless. Today, you decide to type a new search into the computer: personal political. The first article retrieved provides the following information: "The personal is political is a slogan popularized in the 1970s after the publication of an essay of the same name by American feminist Carol Hanisch. The essay argues that the personal experiences of women, in particular, can be traced to one's location within a system of power relationships." It continues, "the article focuses on men's power and women's repression." You are not a feminist. At least, you don't think you are. You have not dated anybody since college. He left you naked and bleeding in a bathtub, and now when you imagine someone touching you, your skin crawls with fevered repulsion. You work. You eat. You sleep. Your boss is a man; he sometimes spells your name wrong in emails and often tells you to smile more on Zoom calls. You make your meeting background a calming beach so that you look less cold. The deadline for action is fast approaching, and you take the loaded weight of the gun into your hands for the first time since delivery. You never even considered going to the police. You don't like being seen and fear you will only appear crazy or culpable.

You walk into the bathroom and hold the pistol out while gazing into the dirty clarity of your mirror. This stance seems correct, and for the first time, it feels like you have mastered at least some part of the mystery. Point. Aim. Shoot. At whom? And why? You are standing there, looking at yourself, looking at an unknown victim, when your mouth opens, and you begin to speak. "It is all in your head. You did this to yourself. You should have died in the bathtub, too." You pull the trigger, and it is pointing at your own mouth. Your lips cock into a smile. You are her and me, and she is you.