The Last Wish

I knew I had done wrong. I knew it from the moment I saw her hollow, empty eyes glare one last time at me—pleading for something I couldn’t give—before extinguishing fully. All those promises left untouched. The laughs and talks fading away in the past. Caro was dead. And she wasn’t coming back.

Not now. Not ever.

I gulped a rock down my throat as I took another step forward, handcuffs pressing around my wrists. My legs wobbling like Jell-O, feet tapping violently against the floor, heart racing inside my ribcage as if it already knew the fate that awaited me on the other side.

That feeling of knowing you were going to die . . .

Yeah, it was not that pleasing.

I found myself in the department of MTV—short for Magical & Treachery Violations, not Music Television like some may think—at the Ministry of Magic. It was sick. Bad. The worn-out colors swallowing you up, whispering bad things. Things you didn’t want to hear.

It didn’t matter how many times I tried to justify it, tell myself it had been for a bigger cause, that it had been worth it. It didn’t matter how many times I apologized to the Lord, asked for forgiveness. It was already set in stone. I wasn’t getting out of this.

Nobody was getting out of this.

A man stood before me in the line—cargo pants, flannel shirt, heavy-duty boots, and a leather helmet like a relic. Miner, probably. Nervous, just like me. His hands were shaking, the metal of the handcuffs clanking loudly, echoing through the hallway. Waiting for his turn. Waiting for his end.

Hours had passed since I’d been forced to line up. Hours of thinking, of trying to accept. Hours of watching people in front of me finally enter the main room. The room where everyone ended up sharing the same fate.

I tried to say something, to reassure the man that everything was going to be okay, that the Lord was going to take care of him. That he’d be safe.

Then again . . . I didn’t know what he had done. I didn’t even know if I was going to be forgiven.

“Frank Harian,” called the guard standing beside the entrance, holding up a very large clipboard like a bouncer at a nightclub. He wore a formal tuxedo, his shoulders probably tripling mine. He did not look like someone you’d want to get in trouble with. “Step forward. Your wish is ready to be granted.”

The man in front of me shook more violently, dropping to his knees, pleading with the bouncer, tears streaking down his face.

“Please, please. I have a daughter—she’s eight years old. Please, you can’t do that to her. You have to do something. Please, this isn’t fair, this—”

Before he could finish, two guards with the same towering build as the bouncer emerged from the entrance and began dragging the miner away, his cries and shouts echoing down the corridor.

I turned my head, unwilling to look at a dead man’s face. A face of suffering and pain.

“Please. Someone help me! I didn’t do anything wrong. Please—!”

The door shut. His cries cut off abruptly.

Nobody said a word.

The line crept forward.

And just like that, the miner was gone.

I closed my eyes and tried to take a deep breath, my heart racing faster than a Formula 1 car. I was next. The next standing in front of the line. And that meant only one thing.

In a few moments, the bouncer would call my name, telling me to step forward because my wish was about to be granted.

Wish? I saw it more like hell—a punishment worthy only of the worst people.

For years, that law had stood firm in the constitution: when faced with a severe punishment for an action of unmatched consequence, you were given a choice.

The wish.

The hell.

The moment you stepped into court, you were offered all the possibilities in the world to choose how you wanted to die. You could die fighting a dragon. You could die drowned. You could die eating your favorite cake. You could die playing video games in real life.

The possibilities were endless.

But survival? Zero.

The air seemed to grow thicker around us, cold and dense. Currents of wind crept from beneath the door that separated life from death. It always happened like that. You told your wish, a cold surge of wind passed through the room, and PAM!—next in line.

That meant only one thing: I had a few seconds to rethink my wish. To hope what I’d thought of was really the loophole in the whole system. The thing that would get me back—to my wife, to my child about to be born.

I had to get back.

Memento mori was a phrase I used to keep present in every single second of my life. Damn, I even had it as my phone wallpaper before all of this happened.

Before I found out about the HNJ.

Before I got thrown into this mess.

Before I was faced with a life-or-death situation.

Please work, please work, I muttered to myself as I counted the seconds left. The moment they would call the bouncer to tell me I could step into the room.

Inhale. Exhale.

I had to get back. I had to end all of this. Finally put an end to what I had started.

Inhale. Exhale.

There wasn’t any other way. My wife and unborn son were putting all their trust in me. I couldn’t leave them.

Inhale. Exhale.

“Caleb Pickett.”

The voice hit me like a cold bucket of water, snapping my nervous system out of its momentary calm. I could feel my heart beating in my stomach.

“Y-yes?” was all I managed, my lips twitching as I stared at the wooden door that was about to define my entire future.

Please work, please work.

The bouncer nodded, extending his arm toward the door. “You’re next. Remember to have your wish prepared.”

Wish.

My wish was to not die, to not be part of this systematic pyramid scheme. To get away from all of this and be with my family. To discover the world and be a funny dad. To drink beer with my friends while playing poker. To read at midnight in a café. To box and have fun.

To not have let Caro die . . .

All of that seemed impossible as I opened the door, only to face what I’d been fearing for hours. The final moment.

The final freaking destination.

Inhale. Exhale.

“You can do it,” I muttered to myself, loud enough to hear it. “You can do it.”

The place was like a mini circular stadium, with rows of people going up, all dressed formally for the occasion. Some wore green robes with golden rims, others something far simpler: black and white.

Their eyes followed me as an old, ragged man was dragged away.

Not just any man.

The same miner from earlier.

Except now, he looked nothing like himself—that young, fearful face with no wrinkles was gone, replaced by something barely human. His skin folded, sunken like deflated balloons wrapped around bone. His once-lively brown hair replaced by silver strands falling limply over his face.

He looked worse than a wrinkled raisin. My stomach churned.

Please work, please work.

He groaned as the guards dragged him toward a green-labeled door marked Exit. Never to be seen again. The judges didn’t seem to care—they just sat there, impatient, their gazes on me.

I gulped and stepped forward into the center of the room, where a lone microphone stood. I could feel their judgment as my sweaty palms reached for it, the handcuffs clattering together.

The silence stretched on forever, punctuated only by the soft hum of the lights. I glanced at the judges—their faces stoic, like stone. I swallowed again, forced myself to remember the wish. What I was about to do.

Please work, please work.

“Hi, um . . . my name is Caleb. Caleb Pickett. And I believe . . . I b-believe I’m innocent?”

A few laughs erupted from the stands, quickly silenced by the principal judge in front of me. She wore purple robes with pink linings, which contrasted with her rich dark skin. Her natural afro gave her a commanding silhouette that stood out in the room.

I knew her from the nights she appeared on the news, talking about how this new law was helping world peace and how she was saving the world and all that crap.

Hell, I could say she was scary—especially with that Colgate smile plastered on her face.

I hated Marva Ellison with all my heart.

“We know who you are, Caleb Pickett,” Marva spoke from another microphone, her dark green eyes locking on me. “And we know what you did. Murder. Breaking into private property. Conspiracy against the government. Manipulation. Being part of the HNJ. Brainwashing. All those things are why you’re here.”

She sighed, pulled the mic away, and muttered something to a man in blue robes beside her. He nodded and walked away. Then Marva pulled the mic back to her red lips.

“Now, can you please tell us your wish? Let’s just get this done.”

I cleared my throat. “T-that’s not true.”

Marva squinted. “What’s not true, Pickett?”

“I didn’t murder anyone.”

Murmurs rippled across the crowd, all eyes on me. But before I could explain, Marva cut me off.

“Please state your wish now, or we will do as we wish with you.”

“Hey, Marva,” someone to her right muttered. “That’s not—”

“I don’t care!” she snapped. Then, with that bright Colgate smile, she turned back to me.

“Just tell us your wish, darling, and soon it’ll all be over.”

I flicked a grin. Please work, please work.

“Well, I wish . . . I wish to die in a moment where I no longer wish to live.”

Gasps and murmurs spread through the crowd.

Somewhere above, someone scoffed. Another whispered, “He’s clever.”

The air thickened. A cold gust surged from beneath the podium, wrapping around me in a freezing embrace that shocked my nervous system.

And then—a click and a robotic voice:

Wish granted.

My hands hovered near my pockets, waiting for something. Anything. Pain. Collapse.

But nothing happened.

No ache. No dizziness. Just my heart, pounding.

And that was all it took.

Because it had worked.

I couldn’t believe it. It had worked.

“I—I don’t understand,” Marva said with a nervous laugh, her voice cracking. “That’s not quite—”

“Possible? Who said that?” I asked, a huge surge of confidence rising inside me.

I wasn’t going to die. Not today.

There was still so much life to live. And I was happy for it.

Marva looked like she wanted to say something. To do something. She turned to her co-workers—but they all looked at me like, Well, he fulfilled his wish. Next.

I had broken the freaking game.

“What?” Marva yelled, erupting from her seat. “You can’t just leave this be! He’s a murderer—a bad guy! Bad people can’t just be left on the streets. It’s against the law!”

“The law you changed,” I pointed out. “Which clearly states I must be given my wish—which has already been fulfilled. So . . . there’s nothing stopping me from being with my wife and to-be-born son, right?”

Marva opened her mouth—but nothing came out. Her lips twitched with rage.

“Then I must be leaving. I have a meeting to attend.”

And with that, I left the room.

No guards followed.

No one stopped me.

Just me, walking out under a thousand stares.

I was free.

I was alive.

And that was all that mattered.

Now, back to business.