The Root of All Evil

I didn’t mean to kill those people, please believe me. Well, let me rephrase that. What I meant to say was: I didn’t mean to kill them… at first. You see, when it all began the only explanation I had was coincidence. As the horrific tragedies progressed, pure coincidence was no longer viable to describe the narrative I had created to sooth my mental anguish. The word that quickly took over my mind was destiny. I was destined for evil and this was no accident. Some may have blamed God, but whose god would give me the power to end thousands of lives across the world? Now, before I end my life please let me explain…

Growing up impoverished in the United States may sound like an oxymoron. Who would ever describe their life in America, the land of endless opportunity, as a poverty-stricken life? Especially when you grow up in one of the richest states in the Americas, or as many like to call it, “North of the Future.” You see, Alaska may be one of the richest states, but only to those it profits of course. “Seward’s Folly”, a more accurate motto, is not so kind to young women who are married with two children and then abandoned at 19.

Raising two boys with little money never bothered my mother. On the contrary, she took pride in living a humble life. As a boy I would skip school to work and earn extra money. When my mother heard of my truancies, she’d quote the verse she so famously lived by: “For the love of money is the root of all evil.”

My mother raised us to believe in God; in an almighty power that has authority over all who walk this earth. Little did she know it was not God who was orchestrating these thousands of deaths, but her eldest son. To this very moment, I still struggle with this thought: Was the money the root of all this evil, or was I?

Exactly one year ago, I was ending my overnight shift at the fishing pier as the first signs of sunlight emerged after the 65 days of pure darkness here in Utqiagvik. No matter how many years you spend in this dreadful town, you never fully adjust to the weeks of endless darkness; maybe this is why so many go mad.

Although I had just worked a grueling 12 hours, my eyes begged to watch the first sunrise of the year, which lead me to take the long route home. I began walking north up Stevenson Street with the view of the glacial ocean to my left. As harsh air pierced my face, I could see the rays of sun peek above the horizon. The sores on my feet and numbness in my hands instantly began to thaw.

This walk up Stevenson seemed longer than the other handful of times I had traveled it. It felt as though I had been walking for hours and somehow the end of the street seemed to never come. Frustrated, I began walking faster and taking longer strides, hoping I’d make it home before my tired legs gave out. It was then, as I passed a dark alleyway, when a flicker of light struck the corner of my eye. I tried to rationalize the trick my eyes had played; a ray of sunlight bouncing off a piece of glass, I thought dismissively. I am not a curious man, especially after working all night, but nevertheless I turned on my heels and retraced my steps.

As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I could make out a vague silhouette at the end of the narrow path. “Come,” a chilling whisper called. I was convinced my imagination and fatigue had gotten the best of me.

“Come!” the voice said again, this time louder and more persistent. I took a few hesitant steps forward and immediately discovered this was no hallucination; the voice was real. After growing accustomed to the shadows, I could see a figure sitting cross-legged with their back hunched, facing me. The tension in my body loosened as I realized they may just be asking for spare change.

“COME!” This time the voice was not soft nor persistent, but deep and demanding. Something in my gut, my soul, pressed me to come nearer. After a few more steps it was clear the voice calling upon me did not match this person’s appearance. It belonged to an old, frail woman and the tarp wrapped around her made her look broader from afar. She gazed at me with milky blue eyes, but I could tell that her eyes were not blue when she was younger… this woman was blind. Her long silver hair was gently swaying across her chest. This struck me as odd because there was no breeze that day, just frigid, dry Alaskan air. As I took in her features, she did not take her eyes off me. Although she appeared unthreatening, a looming sense of doom grew as her gaze pierced into my soul.

After several seconds of eerie silence, she extended a trembling hand and pointed at a tattered shoebox in front of her. “Take,” she said quietly.

An old woman in psychosis having a mental glitch separating her from reality, I scoffed.

“TAKE!” She roared in a deep voice that didn’t sound like her own.

It wasn’t her dreadful screech, but the pressing strain in my soul that urged me to take that damned box.

As I made my way back to the main street, I glanced over my shoulder to get one last look of this mysterious woman. Her face had contorted into a smile but not a cheerful one. With her blind eyes still fixed on me, her demonic grin sent a ghostly shiver down my spine.

Moments later I arrived home. The house was empty just as I expected; my brother and mother were never late to their morning shifts. I placed the dilapidated shoebox on our small kitchen table. My body ached and I was exhausted but couldn’t withstand the temptation to reveal the contents inside.

As I lifted the box’s lid, my eyes landed on a small black book barely kept together by its frail spine. Carefully flipping through the pages, I noticed every leaf was left blank. There was nothing else in the box except a yellow envelope that was ripping at the seams. Opening the envelope, I was overwhelmed as an endless amount of crisp one hundred-dollar bills fell onto the table. My hands shook as I slowly counted the stack of money… once, twice, three times. My throat went dry, my mind fogged, and I was instantly filled with greed. I had never seen so much money in my life… twenty thousand dollars to be exact.

I immediately shoved several hundreds in my pocket and was no longer faint from the long journey home. I placed the black book and cash-filled envelope back in the box, carefully hid it underneath the couch, and went for a stroll.

I had freedom to spend as much as I pleased. I bought the most expensive fish-cutting gloves, knife sets, and work boots I could find. After working with the same stained gear for the last five years, I deserved that 400-dollar purchase.

It was now nearing the afternoon when hunger approached. At CiCi’s Diner, I watched the staticky television news and enjoyed the largest steak on their menu. It was then when breaking news erupted of an accident involving two colliding commercial airplanes killing 358 passengers and 42 passersby from falling debris…400 deaths total. The broadcaster called it “a national tragedy.” I chuckled as I thought of my recent 400-dollar purchase. What a coincidence. Unfazed, I used the last hundred-dollar bill to pay for my meal and headed home.

Once back, I grabbed my lucky shoe box. The little black book had stained my mind. I flipped the cover open and immediately went numb. The number ‘400’ was written across the first page in smeared red-brown paint.

Convincing myself I missed this when first opening the book, I set the box in its hiding place and turned on the television. The local news never piqued my interest; nothing ever happens in Utqiagvik besides petty theft and drastic snowstorms. However, this segment showed a different story.

The camera panned out to display the city’s only hospital where my mother worked as a nurse. As the reporter spoke, I crouched closer to the screen to ensure my ears were not deceiving me. The broadcaster was covering a story involving “an electrical accident” caused by “old wiring”… “sparked and caused a flame”… “those in the second story of the hospital did not make it out alive.” The story was not developed enough to identify the 100 victims.

I reached underneath the couch and flipped to the second page of the book. The number ‘100’ was etched on the second page in the same crimson paint. Examining it closer, I was horrified to realize this was not paint; this was blood.

Thankfully my mother was not one of the victims of my selfish greed that day. I stayed up that night bouncing back and forth between sheer coincidence and any other explanation to these supernatural circumstances.

After several days of contemplating, I put my theory to a test. The test that would prove if this was simply coincidence or something more.

My next purchase was an experiment: a blue pick-up truck for my mother. Despite the recent tragedies, the truck seemed to lift her spirits but only temporarily. Her joyful tears soon turned to sorrowful ones as the news broadcaster announced terrorist attacks in Iraq and Turkey later that night.

My magic black book only confirmed my thesis. ‘7,200’ was inscribed in dried blood on the third page.

What little conscience I had quickly diminished as I kept spending and killing for the next year. You would think being the cause of accidents, shootings, bombings, and natural disasters would trigger me to stop depleting of my cursed wealth. Oh, on the contrary… the more I spent, the more power I had. Compassion was no longer part of my vocabulary, instead it was greed. I no longer felt empathy, but apathy. My inner demons were no longer strangers, but my closest friends. It’s as if the money were taunting me and the small black book was living proof of the lives I was destined to take.

My mother prayed for the grief to end. In a way, I answered her prayer. I should have known spending my last dollar would come at a price, my mother’s last breath. “To be with God,” is how she would describe it. But no, I am as close to God as they come, and she is not here with me.

When I got home this morning her truck was still parked outside. I walked into the house to my brother’s heartbroken screams coming from her room. Instinctively, I grabbed my beat-up shoebox and lifted its lid. I tossed my empty envelope aside and flipped through my book for the last time. My mother’s life was displayed on the last page… ‘1’.

It took my mother’s death to understand the true meaning of the words she had instilled in us, her lectures on “the root of all evil.” It is now that I understand the heavy weight of this evil and the consequences it carries along with it, especially in my hands.

Like I said, I didn’t mean to kill all those people. However, I do not regret it because if I did, I would negate my true destiny. Those lives will not be in vain though, because now I take my own.

To whoever finds my body along with this letter, please tell my brother this: I hope you enjoy mom’s pick-up.