Love is the Enemy

Sometimes I hate this world. Hate my job. My life. Hate everything.

But that’s all right. Hate is allowed.

Love, however, is forbidden.

Love is the enemy.

Without love, though, I wouldn’t have a purpose. I work for a government agency, tracking down Lovers. People who can’t control themselves. Can’t stop loving. I’d like to say we arrest them, give them a fair trial, patiently reeducate them to see the error of their ways. But mostly that doesn’t work, so we just hunt them down and kill them.

You see, Lovers are sick, and love is the disease. Easily spread. Highly infectious. And it kills everything it touches, sooner or later. We realized that, and our leaders took steps to stop the disease before it could destroy us completely.

Some people, even after all these years, disagree.

The crime scene is typical for this most dangerous type of criminal. It’s a standard living unit, a small apartment, just enough space for one person. It’s cramped, limited, devoid of any decoration, as normal as can be for the world we live in today.

The only thing that stands out are the bodies.

Two police officers lie on the floor near the door. A pool of blood has spread around them, from the multiple gunshot wounds apiece. It could be a crime with any motive, committed by any type of criminal. However, the note left with the bodies gives it away.

I’m sorry. They didn’t give me any choice.

The words are penned on a slip of paper, written in a hasty scrawl. I still recognize the handwriting. It’s the Lover I’ve been hunting for a long time now. Only a Lover would apologize for killing, and only this particular Lover would have been able to kill two cops and get away without a scratch.

After all, she was trained to kill. Like me.

A crime scene technician stands over the corpses, taking pictures and collecting evidence. I could tell him he’s wasting his time. He won’t find anything to identify the perpetrator, any clue to say where she’s gone or what her intentions are. But it’s his job; I’ll leave him to it, so long as he doesn’t get in the way of me doing my job.

He notices me, glances over, taking in my uniform. “So it was a Lover did this, right?” He gestures at the note.

I nod.

“Two officers down, just like that, neat as you please, and we get an apology.” He shakes his head. “Some Lover, huh?”

Yeah. Some Lover. I should know. She was a fellow agent.

She was my wife.

I walk past him, taking a slow turn around the living unit. Just three rooms, a common area with a kitchenette, a bedroom little bigger than a closet, and a bathroom that’s smaller. The kind of place you tell yourself you have to get out of, one that drives you to improve your situation, no matter what you have to do. As it’s meant to.

There’s nothing that leaps out at me as suspicious, no banned artwork or literature left lying around, no scrawled sappy poems or anti-government slogans. Everything is as it should be.

Even so, as blank a slate as the space is, I can tell she’s been here. She’s left her mark in a hundred little ways. Like her favorite scent in the air, a faint but noticeable hint of lavender. Or the tea she liked to drink, a cold mug of it sitting on the table. The clothes in the bedroom drawers are her size. The utensils in the kitchen are arranged the way she likes. So, yeah, she was here.

But how recently?

An overturned chair lies before the table. I crouch down to rest my hand against the thin upholstery. Still warm. I take a deep breath. Her smell still lingers.

Not long ago, then. She could still be close by.

A smile crosses my lips. Not a happy smile. But a satisfied one. Of course she won’t have gone far. Not yet.

I leave the apartment, swiftly taking the stairs down to the street. Outside, it’s a cold night, the air sharp and biting, the pavement slick in spots with black ice. A hard night. Perfect for what’s coming.

A crowd of onlookers has gathered, pressing close to the police tape cordon. They’re curious, naturally. But they’re more than that, some of them at least. They’re worried. Anxious. Fearful. Concerned about how much she left behind. How much I now know.

Why?

Because they’re sick. Infected. That’s what love does, and Lovers are the vectors. She’ll have spread her disease. A kind word here. A charitable act there. Sharing what she has. Not asking for anything in return. Giving herself away, in more ways than one.

Soon enough, people around her start thinking that maybe there’s something to her way of doing things. Maybe love isn’t as bad as it’s made out to be. Maybe they should give it a chance.

I look at them, and shake my head. Love has blinded them. That kind of thinking nearly ended our civilization. Too much giving, and there isn’t enough to go around. Too much kindness, and you stop worrying about yourself, about getting ahead in the world, about achieving. Progress stagnates. Society ceases to develop, advance.

That can’t be allowed. The hard choices have to be made. Someone must do what must be done.

No matter how much I hate it.

I’m not looking at the crowd to find new offenders. We could round them all up, question them, test them for the altered hormone levels that indicate an increased capacity for love, and we might catch a few fish. But I’m not interested in any old fish; I’m here for the one that got away.

And I know she’s still here.

You see, that’s the thing about love: it keeps you close. Binds you to what you love. Lures you in. Traps you.

Hatred, now…  hatred pushed you away. Creates distance. Makes you wary, distrusting. Keeps you safe. So hatred is allowed. It can even be useful.

But love… love is the enemy.

My gaze sweeps the crowd, looking for that one face. The one that’s there when I close my eyes. The only one I want to see, and the one I hope I never see again.

Sure enough, there she is. Near the back of the crowd, barely visible, rendered anonymous by flashing lights and moving figures. She couldn’t just run, couldn’t leave without knowing. It’s a sort of curiosity, but more about confirming a fear than learning something. She had to see who they’d sent.

Even though she already knew.

But just as she can’t hide anything from me, I can’t hide anything from her. Try as I do not to show any reaction, she knows the instant I’ve spotted her. She turns away, ducking low, and vanishes.

I break into a run, hurling myself into the crowd, pushing and shoving my way through. I have a broad mandate for violence, and I exercise it, hurting anyone who doesn’t get out of my way fast enough.

That makes the crowd turn ugly, of course. It’s so easy for anger to flare up, turn to violence of its own. Now they start to push back, and even my uniform and badge won’t mean anything to them.

My gun, however, is a different matter. When I draw it, a clear space instantly forms around me. When I point it in the direction I’m heading, not really caring who might be in the way, the crowd parts, people scattering. Fear wins over anger.

That’s all right. Fear is allowed. It can even be useful.

Now with a clear path, I race after the Lover. She has a head start, and I’m sure she knows the area. Probably had an escape plan in place ever since she took up temporary residence here. She knows how to get away.

But I know that, too. I didn’t come here unprepared after all. I know it’s useless to try to catch up to her. I just have to be where she’s going.

I race down streets and alleys, taking turns quickly, headed for a nearby public transportation terminal. I reach it to find a handful of figures standing on the platform, waiting for the next tram. They’re checking the posted schedule and the time on their phones, an air of vague irritation hanging over it all. None of them are her, but when they see the uniform and the gun they decide they have somewhere else to be, scurrying away like roaches when the lights turn on.

Now I stand on the flat expanse of cracked concrete, alone to all appearances. But I know she’s here.

“Laura, you can come out now,” I say, raising my voice to be sure she can here me. “There’s no use hiding. The trams aren’t running tonight; I made sure of that before I arrived at the scene. You can’t get away this time.”

There’s the scrape of feet on pavement, and she slips over the edge of the platform, climbing up from the track bed to face me, nothing between us but the cold night air.

The first sound I hear from my wife in almost ten years is a soft sigh. “Norris, I hoped it wouldn’t be you.”

“That’s not true,” I reply. “You always wanted it to be me. Because you think you have a chance with me.”

A smile ghosts across her face. “You know me so well.”

“That’s right. I do. But you can still surprise me, and come peacefully.”

“No, I can’t. Not with what’s waiting for me.”

I didn’t expect differently, but I still feel a rising anger at her stubbornness. “Reeducation might work for you, Laura. You could give it a try.”

“Reeducation?” she repeats the word, making it into a sort of curse. “Why bother? We both know it never does any good. And when it doesn’t, what then?”

Execution. Plain and simple. For what she’s done, for what she once was… they’ll kill her. You don’t get to betray the government and spend a long life in a cell. “Then where does that leave us, Laura?”

“The same place we’ve been since…” She hesitates, drawing a ragged breath. “Since we let them have her. Since we gave them our daughter.”

She would bring this up. Her excuse for turning her back on reason and purpose. Her personal grievance with the world as it is. “It’s the law, Laura. There are good reasons for it. Everyone hands their children over to the state. It’s the only way to prevent infection.”

“Infection. What a thing to call it. It’s love, Norris. It’s what we’re supposed to feel. It’s in our nature. It’s what makes us human.”

“It’s what keeps us human, Laura. It’s what stops us from being more. From being a truly great society. Look at how far we’ve come. No hunger. No war. Purpose, and the ambition to pursue it.”

“No hope. No desires. No joy. We don’t live anymore, Norris. We just go through the motions of existing.”

“At least we still exist, and we’ll continue existing.”

“All this time, and it’s the same argument.” Laura swipes a hand across her eyes… and her other hand comes from behind her back. It holds a gun. “I can’t win you over; you can’t convince me. So I guess I know where that leaves us.”

The gun doesn’t concern me. “You’re not going to shoot me, Laura. If you were, you wouldn’t have tried talking first.”

“And would you shoot me?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She takes a deep breath, as if preparing for a plunge into deep waters. “Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

“You can surrender, come with me, go through reeducation. We can try for a happy ending.”

Now she laughs, a laugh tinged with bitterness and remorse. “You always could make me laugh, Norris.”

“I know. And I’m sorry.”

“Me too.” She moves quickly, darting to the side, trying to reach the cover of the track bed. Maybe she thinks I’ll miss on purpose. Maybe she even thinks I’ll let her go.

Maybe love blinds her.

My bullet strikes her, knocking her off balance. She stumbles, staggers. Tries to stay on her feet. Her legs give out, and she collapses to the concrete. Once more, she tries to drag herself up, before falling back in a heap.

I think maybe she’ll call my name from where she lies. I’d rush to her side, cradle her dying form in my arms. Protest my sorrow, my regret. Beg her forgiveness. And she’d give it to me, tearfully and sincerely. With her last breath, she’d tell me she still loves me.

And I’d tell her I love her.

It wouldn’t be a lie.

She doesn’t call my name. So I stay where I am, standing in the cold, watching as she goes still. She spares us both that last moment together, the one that would end her and destroy me.

I lower my gun, look up at the sky. Small flakes of snow are starting to sift down. They touch my face, cold against my skin, melting in the hot tears that trickle down my cheeks.

Sometimes, I hate this world. Hate this job. Hate my life. Hate everything.

But that’s all right. Hate is allowed.

Love is forbidden.

Love… love is the enemy.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

Even if it is a lie.