The Fulfillment

Swathes of red and blue intermittently flooded my vision. Beneath the flimsy plastic, my limbs still pulsed with adrenaline. Initially, the barrage of sirens and shouts was an audible assault, but now my thundering heart drowned most of it out.

An officer loomed over me, his mouth forming words that failed to reach my ears. The paramedics seemed to retort, much to his chagrin.

I cast my gaze upon the modern structure ahead, an incandescent glow piercing the night. Panels of glass stared back like watchful eyes, knowing the truth of what lay within.

 ***

The smooth chime of a bell reverberated through the room joined by the squeak of feet on yoga mats. My eyelids fluttered open just in time to see the instructor place a hand gently over her heart and give a slight bow.

A lithe figure next to me uncurled like a cat stretching to life, feline and graceful in her movements. Her name-brand attire hugged her toned curves, the same curves that I’d seen in an Instagram post this morning. Retreat Day 1: Learning to Love My Body. The caption was a paragraph thinly veiled as self-love and content, but the undertones bled through. Despite. Rather. Instead. I learned I don’t need…

It was smoke and mirrors–the edited photos, smiling to promote green juices, the constant upgrade of wardrobes and skincare products and makeup. Behind the facade was a girl grasping at the straws of relevancy and follower counts. And, judging by the way she cut her eyes at the woman in the front row of the studio now, the straws were becoming further out of reach.

Allison Devino. I recalled her name then as she continued to glare at the woman. Long, auburn locks whipped in my direction as Allison spun on her heel to leave.

The woman under the fire of Allison’s burning gaze appeared none the wiser. She smiled as she departed, holding an air of confidence that only a ruthless businesswoman could. Genevieve Sterling, financial investment heiress and CEO. It’s no wonder Allison was green with envy. After all, I imagined the salary of an influencer paled in comparison, and how nice would it be to start life with a silver spoon? I made another mental note, trying to piece together the puzzle of faces I’d encountered last night at the welcome dinner, albeit a somewhat difficult task at a silent retreat.

As I made my way to the doorway, a burly shoulder jostled against my own. Glancing to the side, I was met with the red-faced glare of Victor Russo, the lawyer who constantly seemed on the verge of a tantrum. For him, this event seemed more like mandatory anger management than a relaxing weekend of introspection.

Victor grumbled something, shoving his way past me and out of the boiling studio. Hot yoga was never something I’d been eager to try, and the sweat pricking my skin reminded me of that. I yearned for a shower.

I padded my way down the hall to my assigned room. Stretches of glass greeted me, late afternoon sunshine glistening upon the elaborate furnishings. As I turned on the shower, steam curling into the air and coating the mirror, I observed my reflection: brunette hair stringy with sweat, obsidian eyes gazing back.

Muscles aching, I peeled off my tank top. In doing so, a prickling sensation tingled beneath the skin of one of my shoulder blades. I strained my neck to inspect it in the mirror. A patch of redness had started to form, itching with each movement, skin flexing. Running a few fingers over the spot, I hissed, the sting palpable. Perhaps it was from one of the yoga positions, rubbing against the mat as I tried, unsuccessfully, to keep up.

Stepping into the steam, I relished the warm caress. Since dinner wasn’t for another hour, I took my time washing, scrubbing, and generally enjoying the sound of silence.

I could tell most of the others were already struggling to cope with the drastic dissolution of most noise, all of them extroverts in their daily lives. This was a challenge for them.

My thoughts wandered as I went about primping myself for dinner. After curling my hair, applying makeup, strapping on my heels, and sliding a pendant around my neck, I shimmied into my dress. A vibrant red, the satin of it clung in all the right places.

A flat note that gradually increased in volume hummed from the digital panel by the door. Dinnertime. 

The savory aroma of roasting meat wafted through the dining hall. My mouth watered.

The chefs here were world-class. The welcome dinner the night prior exemplified that as I had torn into a leg of lamb and wolfed down perfectly steamed asparagus, so I knew tonight would be no different.

Our selected meals were hand-delivered to each of us, half the group abstaining from meat. As I sliced into the steak before me, crimson juices pooling, my skin prickled with the sensation of being watched.

I glanced up, a pair of blue eyes catching mine. His chiseled features were intense, and he didn’t avert his gaze as he took a bite of his meal. The twitch of a slight smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he continued to stare.

Jackson Rothmeier, corporate real estate mogul. 

I’d seen his icy gaze before, plastered across the media. He even had his own Wikipedia page; quite the accomplishment for someone in real estate. But the way his eyes traveled ever lower made my skin crawl. He was married, after all, his wife having attended many of his philanthropic appearances.

The staredown seemed to last forever, finally interrupted by the crash of glass. 

Everyone turned. In the far corner of the room, a bulbous man in a designer suit waved a waiter away as he attempted to collect the shattered remnants of a whisky glass. He adjusted his tie with fumbling fingers, and if this hadn’t been a silent retreat, he probably would have slurred his words.

Howard Gunnison, former politician and drunkard.

The man was notoriously scummy, so when I saw his face last night I almost laughed out loud at the notion of such a human trying to better themselves. And, quite obviously, the mission was not going well. He had to have snuck a flask in to get that tanked between yoga and dinner.

At the table across from Howard, a posh woman in a pantsuit curled her lip in disgust at the scene.

Melissa Ellsworth, entrepreneur and public speaker.

Melissa had graced many stages in her career, discussing the ins and outs of successful entrepreneurship. The details of her rags-to-riches story pulled on the heartstrings of the nation, inspiring the laymen to believe that perhaps they too could start their own clothing brand from the ground up.

Forks scraping plates pierced the quiet, with the occasional mumble from Howard as he beckoned for a new glass of whisky. Melissa rolled her eyes over her wine glass as she took a prolonged sip.

Our fearless leader and head of the retreat entered the room then. Michael Solomon.

His long hair was tied back into a ponytail, linen clothing hanging from his thin frame. Head held high, he appraised the value of his guests–and judging from the slight sneer, I gathered that value was rather low. Conceit dwelled within him; I could sense it from a mile away. Without a word, Michael raised his hands in a gesture of thanks. The guests nodded in silence as he departed.

We had seen very little of Michael since our arrival. And, truthfully, he was a bit of a recluse. Perhaps that’s why he enjoyed running a silent retreat.

I tossed my napkin on my plate, excusing myself from dinner. With a bit of disdain, I passed by Howard, feeling his eyes on me as I brushed a bit too close to his table. I couldn’t stand another second of being ogled or watching a rich drunkard make an utter fool of himself. 

Just after slipping off my heels, a light knock rapped against the door. Without the advantage of a peephole, I was forced to open it without screening my visitor.

Jackson leaned in the doorway, hair slightly tousled.

“I know we’re not supposed to talk,” he whispered. “But I saw the way you were looking at me at dinner.”

I cocked an eyebrow inquisitively, mostly at his audacity.

“Don’t play coy,” he continued. “I know what you want, and I understand.”

He understands?

“Because I want it, too.”

His hands were suddenly on me, groping, his breath hot on my neck. My skin screamed in disgust beneath his touch, and pain ignited as his hand brushed over the spot on my shoulder blade. I hissed, which he interpreted as a green light, pushing himself on me further.

“I knew you wanted–” The words breathlessly tumbling from his lips were cut short, and he glanced down, wincing.

A shining blade protruded from his chest, a stain like spilled wine spreading across the virgin white of his shirt. Blood replaced words, and he sputtered in his collapse. I took a step back, watching him crumple against the wood, smearing its polished surface. He shuddered briefly before stilling.

Jackson Rothmeier, adulterer, was no more. This wasn’t his first offense, either. He was a serial offender when it came to infidelity.

“Oh my God!” a horrified voice came from the hall. Allison, frozen in place, trembled. The front of my dress was stained, blood plastered across my arms–undoubtedly a horrifying sight.

I watched as she fumbled to find her phone, the phone that I had earlier swiped from her table on my way out of dinner while she was busy glaring at Genevieve. If anyone was a liability to call for police, it was the influencer practically glued to her phone. 

And I needed more time.

“Please,” she begged, stumbling back. I had originally planned this differently, but she just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. My muscles screamed as I lunged for her; she squealed like a frantic pig.

Scarlet footprints trailed me as I chased Allison into the dining hall. Again she screamed, this time as she noticed Howard slumped over his unfinished plate, eyes blank and glassy.

That one had been rather easy: a quick drop of a pill into his whisky on my way out of the dining hall and a long enough onset for the crowd to clear out before he succumbed. A silent tick off the checklist.

There was no need for Allison to cry over Howard. Not only was he a scumbag, but his drunkenness had taken the life of another.

A few years prior, blitzed from a night at the bar, Howard had struck and killed a teenage girl who had snuck out of her house. Thanks to Howard’s power and some unfortunately good connections, he faced the lowest possible sentence.

Allison’s wailing brought me back to the moment. She cowered in a corner, eyes darting wildly in search of an escape. Though she was the lowest offender on my list, I still couldn’t let her go; it was a formality.

I plucked a knife from a nearby table and flung it forward with a dizzying speed. The crying stopped, and Allison slumped against the wall, the handle of the blade jutting from her eye socket.

Footsteps echoed from down the hall, and I turned just in time to see Victor gawking and tripping into the room before wheeling backward.

“What the–” His face blanched, a stark contrast to the usual beet-red. He clutched his chest and staggered back. “Help,” he croaked.

This one would finish itself, I supposed.

Victor collapsed. I stepped carefully over to him. For a few moments, he clawed at my claves, pulled at the hem of my dress, sputtered–then silence. No longer would Victor’s temper detonate at the expense of others–namely his battered wife. No longer would the law protect him from the wreckage of his short fuse.

I paused for a moment, surveying the mess. Things had been set in motion now, and there was no going back.

An hour later, I found myself sitting alone in the foyer. Luckily I had managed to avoid any more blood.

In one room, Melissa hung from the ceiling fan by a twisted, overpriced dress–one of her company’s very own. But I was certain the children who fabricated it in her sweatshops, one of whom perished due to poor labor conditions, wouldn’t be too sad. Melissa had never lifted a finger to go the extra mile in life, and now she didn’t even lift a finger in her own death.

In another room, Genevieve lay still, adjacent to a gun that had likely cooled off by now. She snuck it in for protection, a paranoia developing since her defrauding tendencies were exposed to the public–tendencies that cost so many others their livelihoods while she raked in the profits. It was ironic: her career had been upheaved by a smoking gun and now she was leaving this world by a smoking gun.

I tallied six bloody fingers, sitting cross-legged under a lone chandelier. Only one more to complete the requirements. I caught him earlier cowering in a storage closet with a cell phone but knew I had to save him for last.

With the retreat being so isolated, I knew I had some time to wrap things up. I gathered my remaining strength, peeling myself from the floor.

“Michael,” I called lackadaisically. My voice ricocheted in the barren foyer. I never did grasp the appeal of the minimalist aesthetic, the coldness and emptiness of it.

Like a fox in winter, I stalked through the white-walled expanse, listening intently for my prey. A muffled sob came from the storage closet. The idiot hadn’t even bothered to move.

I knocked politely, opening the door to reveal the coward huddled in the far corner.

“Stay back!” he shouted, wielding a mop handle in defense. “I’m warning you.”

“Michael, Michael, Michael, you just don’t get it do you?” My tone was condescending. There was some enjoyment in watching this pompous man wither. “You made a deal, and this is part of the deal.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I clucked my tongue, chuckled. “Hell. That’s funny. You see, Michael, I know for as spiritual as you are, you can’t make the world butterflies and rainbows through manifestation alone. No amount of writing out your dreams in a vegan leather journal will make them come true.”

“How did you know about my journal?” he asked, eyes narrowed.

“Michael, I know everything. Everything about everyone. Truths you couldn’t fathom. You called on a higher–or perhaps I should say lower–power for help and here I am to seal the deal. Consider me a bounty hunter of sorts.” I scratched my itching back as I tried to dumb it down for him. “Michael Solomon, you made a deal with the Devil to get your dream life at any expense necessary.”

“So that means murdering my guests and livelihood?” he cried.

“In this case, yes. It’s no simple feat to take that much energy from the universe to spend on one selfish person. Souls are required. Souls of seven people, seven deadly sins.”

“I don’t understand.”

I sighed, exasperated, and proceeded to check off the requirements: Jackson–lust, Allison–envy, Howard–gluttony, Victor–wrath, Melissa–sloth, Genevieve–greed. I counted, putting a finger down with each name until only one remained. “That leaves pride.” I could tell he still wasn’t following. “I know how high you hold yourself, Michael, looking down your nose at others. And the fact that you were willing to sacrifice anything for your benefit says it all.”

The gears clicked into place in Michael’s mind, and he started to sob. “Please, I’ll do anything.”

“We’ve already gone that route, Michael. Besides, you had your dream life–a successful business in solitude where you could control the lives of others exactly how you wanted–it just happened to have an expiration date.”

I snatched the mop, snapping it in half over my knee. The unevenness of splintered wood made as good a weapon as any at the moment. Michael trembled, closed his eyes.

“Don’t worry, it’s all about to be over.”

With one swift jab, I checked off the final requirement.

I tossed the other half of the mop handle aside with a clatter. The sting in my shoulder blades blossomed into a full-blown ache, and I rolled them to quell the pain. Not long now.

Slowly, I wound my way back to the foyer, sucking in breath after breath, quicker and quicker until I was practically hyperventilating. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer before screaming into the drive. I held my breath and willed the tears to come until they streaked down my ruddy cheeks.

“Police! Come out with your hands up!”

I obeyed, whimpering in my exit. “Please, help me!” I screeched. “He tried to kill me! I had to do it! He killed them all!”

I collapsed to my knees in the moonlight, feeling a heat begin to burn as the gravel bit into them.

***

Once they cleared me, the paramedics quickly became preoccupied with searching for signs of life inside the blood-soaked retreat. The cops questioned me, but I feigned catatonia.

It didn’t matter anyway. I could feel the pull towards home, my skin smoldering beneath the emergency blanket.

For a brief moment, no one watched me. I shrugged off the blanket, once again rolling my shoulders. The ache crescendoed, skin tightening. I winced and, one by one, feathers burst forth in two black plumages–wings of the fallen.

The mission was complete, and the heat emanating from the earth beckoned me. 

“It’s time,” a familiar voice hissed. 

The heat intensified, another seven souls feeding the flames.