Trigger

"You lied to me."

It was a statement, not a question, and his tone demanded a confession. You don't have one to give him, because you've no idea what he's talking about. Nervously, you back away, almost tipping over the floor lamp by the broken sofa. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the threadbare carpet by the door getting soaked with the rain streaming in from the open doorway where I stand, dripping wet and trying to close my broken umbrella. I glance over, and see you're looking at me. I wink. I knew how much you hated getting the floorboards wet; mold grows on soggy wood, and it'll take a whole day to peel off the carpet then clean it off. The umbrella springs open, spraying water on to the dissected Nintendo 64 lying in front of the TV. A spark and a fizzle. You wince. Bad time to fix the thing; now you have to get a new one. The ten bucks it takes to buy one of those old things nowadays must be a lot to a paper boy. Actually, if it were me, I would use this as an excuse to get a Wii. Yeah, they just came out two weeks ago and a cost a freaking fortune, but those new controllers look like something that would make a difference to a first person shooter. Besides, I had figured out Num's safe combination a long time ago. And if he ever finds out that money went missing, even though he probably can't count high enough to notice if the number is a few grands short, he'll blame you, 'cause I'm not the one who's seriously short on cash.

I finally manage to close the umbrella and drop it into the plastic bucket that you bought at a garage sale last week. The umbrella is red with yellow polka dots and the bucket is a faded green. Nice colours. Don't go together, though. I slam the door. "Hey Ans," I call to you, "if you got the time tomorrow, you could go get an umbrella. One that isn't crap. Or do you have an appointment to go fix your glasses, eh four-eyes?" You reach up to touch the thick layer of scotch tape wrapped around the bridge of your glasses.

So it wasn't exactly polite, and the timing was bad; after all, I'd heard you being yelled at as soon as I'd entered the apartment lobby. You glance at me and grimace. Num appears not to have noticed. No wonder; he's concentrating on staying mad at you and his brain can't cope with processing two things at once. His face is red as the blood rushes up to fuel his anger. That can't be good for him. Popped veins at the least, cardiac arrest at the worst. Not that I'm complaining. If he dies, I wouldn't have to leave money in the safe; even Num would notice if I take everything.

"Hey answer me, Answer," I call again. Your name is fun to make fun of. What were your parents thinking? "Answer! Answer McQuestion!" Is that even your real name?

Num turns slowly in my direction, growling, mad that I was stealing his prey. So bozo noticed me, did he? He looks tough and intimidating, what with his bulky figure and giant fist, but he's all strength and no technique. You're okay as long as you don't let his beer breath get to you. Me, on the other hand, me you gotta watch out for. I know so many knife tricks there's a way for me the take out your tongue in a blink of an eye for every story in the Arabian Nights. And ironically, some of those ways I learned from that anthology. Yeah, so I read too much. But at least none of it is technical manuals pieced together from articles gotten off stolen cable internet and technology magazines you get free at the corner store, unlike you, Ans.

I glance around at the living room scene as I take off my boots. It looks like someone hit the pause button on you guys. Num is glaring at me, wishing looks could kill. It looks like he won't try anything though; pity, I'd looked forward to a good fight after a day of collecting trash from the curbsides. Still, I can't complain: not every guy is lucky enough to get paid for going through other people's stuff, even if it's just trash. Remember that Rolex I gave you to fix? Just a jammed gear and they throw it out. Lucky me.

Gah. Who am I kidding? I hate this going straight business, and we all know it. I shouldn't be stuck in this dump right now. Stupid Num. Screw him. A month in jail versus a year of police supervision, and he picks the latter for all of us. And thus I get landed living with him and the kid that we tricked into stealing a credit card. Yeah, Ans, that's you. We made some stupid mistakes too, when we were your age, but boy-oh-boy we had better luck. The only other time that I've been caught was that time I was twenty, and that was doing drugs, which doesn't really count as anything. For someone who was stealing since the age of fifteen, I had a pretty clean slate until Num messed it up. I've been sticking up the same banks for quite a while now and nobody notices anything other than "Wow, this is a pretty unlucky bank." Of course, now no one puts money there, but I can't do any bank robbing either, since there's a police chick poorly disguised as a little old lady watching us from across the street. I saw her on my way home. I probably could've scared her away by flicking a knife at her, but then we'd have a dozen police cars surrounding this place in thirty seconds flat, and us in jail despite having endured two months of this supervision stuff.

I yank off my poncho and toss it at Num's face. He catches it and rips it in one movement, a classic act of machoism. I pretend to look offended: "You ripped it! Now poor Ans has to go buy a new one!" You look at me pleadingly; it really won't help to have him madder at you than he already is. Num continues to glare and growl, inarticulate. I actually have this theory that he just looked at a computer keyboard when he decided to change his name, so he just as well might have been called "PrntScn" or "Alt" or even "F2". Or maybe even "BenQ" or "Compaq" or "ASDF". I wouldn't put it past him. To him, the Windows logo would be the most awe-inspiring name ever. No really, he probably thinks it's an actual letter and wonders all the time why it's not on the Mac keyboards.

Num had regained enough self-control by then to start talking again, continuing where he'd left off during his yelling at you. "You lied to me, Ans." Have you ever noticed that he never uses your whole name? It gets too confusing for him.

"W-what are you talking about?" you stammer.

"You know what I'm talking about," he growls menacingly.

That's all it takes for me know where this is going: Num can't understand a single thing that you say, so he says you're lying. Then he proceeds to try and beat you up and I have to stop him. I'd been hoping for some excitement today, something different from the same thing that happens almost every night. Well I don't feel like saving the world today. Num can get his capital punishment for murder and I'll have the apartment to myself. Just crawl outside to die so I won't have to clean anything up. Of course, after I use up all the money you two leave behind I'll have to find another apartment, but by then I'll have won Betty over so I could just move into her place. Think Num would curse me from hell and sic Satan at me for stealing his girl?

I shrug off my jacket onto the sofa and walk between you and Num on the way to my room. Papers are scattered all over my desk. Half a cracked cup of cold coffee sits on a cork coaster next to a small stack of cheap paperbacks that I read when you're hogging both the Windows 97 and the Nintendo 64 at the same time. I peer into the cup and down the contents. I gag. All the sugar and cream had condensed at the bottom, resulting in separately taking in bitter black coffee and a spoonful of half-melted icky sweetness.

With some difficulty, I close my door. The hinges had rusted together. I can still hear Num's yelling at you through the walls, but the words are indistinct. A bottle of expired sleeping pills lies on its side on the nightstand. I grab it and pop two into my mouth. As I put back the bottle, I notice my reflection in the grimy mirror leaning against the wall. I look a mess. Red eyes, sallow skin, messy hair, and unshaven. Tomorrow, I remind myself, tomorrow I'll shave. I strip off my clothes and throw myself onto my bed. The mattress creaks. I can feel the springs poking at me through the worn sheets. My head collapses onto the flimsy pillow. Just before I close my eyes I glance at the glow-in-the-dark hands of my clock. 11:26 pm. The garbage collecting should really happen earlier.

I fall asleep.

---

The volume of the voices had been increasing for a while and I finally get pissed enough to get up and yell at somebody. I'd been asleep barely three hours and now I'm awake again because of some idiot in the living room. It's probably Num, deciding to kill you after all, but I doubt he could have been yelling for three hours.

Now I hear your voice too. Strange. You never talk back to Num when he's yelling at you, spit flying. Still, maybe you're just begging for your life.

I would love to sit back and watch with a phone in my hand, ready to dial 911 as soon as Num kills you. But hey, I have a job interview tomorrow, and I need sleep to get that second job. I unjam the door from the frame, then fling it open, the words already on my mouth: "Shut your freaking traps before I shut them for you, dammit!"

Silence. I stare at them. They stare back.

Num was holding a rusty frying pan, ready to hit you on the head. You, uncharacteristically, seem prepared to fight back, a butcher's knife in your hands. Betty, whatever she's doing here, stands to one side, glancing between you two as if unsure. Num has never been this uncomposed in her presence before. And then there's me, leaning through a dilapidated doorframe. There are several things about this scene that I had not expected. One of them is you holding a big knife and actually looking like you knew what to do with it. The other is Betty and the fact she that she's here at all. The two put together told me that this is more than just the usual idiotic squabbles.

For the second time tonight, it looks like someone hit the pause button. My shock decides to register itself in the form of a sentence: "What the hell?"

As if that sentence serves as a trigger, all commotion starts again. Num starts yelling, you start yelling back, Betty yells at both of you to calm you two down. I scowl. "I said shut up, dammit!" Silence.

Num's practically growling at you, his complexion darkening from red to maroon. It's a wonder his face hasn't blown up by now. He starts talking. "You bastard," he says to you, "You slept with Betty last night." Oh. This is a new development. You're an idiot, Ans. A real freaking idiot. Actually, I have trouble believing what Num just said. But you're still an idiot for having him even imagine that you slept with his girlfriend.

Betty steps forward now, reaching a hand out to touch Num's arm. "Num, please."

At the sound of her voice, Num turns around to face her, anger still in his eyes. "You," he growls, "you slut, you cheated on me." Like he hadn't slept with plenty other girls during the year they've been together. So why can't she sleep with other people too?

"Num, I..." she trails off. Her eyes are pleading. He shows no reaction. She looks away. I guess that means you really slept with her. Who would've thought it? You of all people.

Num's eyes flash. He's also realized that Betty's lack of a denial is equivalent to a strait out confession. His face darkens even more. That's his problem: he's too possessive. He can't just go to Betty and say "Go with Ans, be happy." That's why you're such an idiot to steal his girl.

He turns back around to face you. "You lied to me. You said you'd never even talked to her."

With one quick crack of his hand, he hits Betty hard on the forehead. She falls back, hitting the back of her neck on the corner of the counter. Blood gushes ferociously from both wounds. She slides down, leaving red streaks on the cabinet doors, and slumps onto the carpet. She won't live long. I stare at Num. He's violent, but he had never killed anyone. Not that I know of, anyway.

You stare at Betty's soon-to-be corpse, disbelieving. The colour drains from your face. I almost expect you to pee in your pants. Something nudges my foot. I look down; it's the pill bottle. It must have fallen off the nightstand and rolled away; even the walls had shook when Betty hit the counter. Which reminds me of something I should be doing. Slowly, I back away into my room. If police starts asking questions, I was asleep the whole time; I'm a heavy sleeper, sorry not to be of any help.

Except for the heavy breathing of the three of us, the apartment is silent. I close my door and flop down onto my bed. The springs creak. Might as well go to sleep. The police have ways of telling if you're feigning.

I actually do fall asleep. It can't be more than twenty minutes later when I wake up. The apartment is oddly quiet. I'd have thought that police would be swarming this place by now. Maybe they are. I decide to go check. There's a huddle of empty beer bottles on the floor by the mirror. I often sit on the floor drinking until I pass out. These are from last week. That was when I got fired from my old morning job, and why I have an interview tomorrow. One of the bottles still has a bit of drink in it. I swallow the contents, barely tasting it. It's not much, but I find it's always easier to face cops when I have some booze in me. Though ideally, it's even better if I get a little bit drunk. The mouthful I got from the old bottle won't do anything.

I wrench open the door. A splinter of wood from the doorframe flies away, almost hitting me in the face. Just as I'm about to step out, I notice the pill bottle that I had left lying there. I pick it up, then stick my head around the doorframe.

Once again, the scene is not what I had expected. It's neither filled with police nor empty and calm. The light bulb on its chain swings gently. Something red had splattered onto it, and the tinted light adds to the nightmarish quality of the already macabre scene.

I hate you, Answer McQuestion. I hate you and your retarded name. I hate you to hell.

Num lies on the carpet, eyes wide open but blank. A butcher's knife sticks out of his windpipe, planted down with deadly precision. He appears to be lying in a pool of blood, but it's hard to tell with the light stained red. Worst of all, you're kneeling next to him, shaking a bit. Your hands, held out and apart, are smeared red. Blood drips from your fingertips. Num's blood. "Frig," I whisper. I never would've thought. Num is one thing, but you...

I hated that guy, I hated Num. But I never wanted him dead. Not really. He and I have been through a lot. We've been partners eight whole years before we ever met you. That's ten altogether. More than ten. So he screwed up a few times, but he's still a pretty good partner. I'd been looking forward to working with him again after our year is up.

You're full of surprises. Maybe that's why your name is Answer. Like the answer to the question of the universe, you're always revealing new secrets, there's always room for more discovery.

I stare at you. You stare back. And suddenly you pull out something from behind you and aim it at me. It's a gun. Num's gun. The one he got illegally from the guy we used to sell our stolen goods to. And you're aiming it at me. Your finger moves to the trigger.

I should be pulling out a concealed knife and burying it in your forehead before you even realize what's going on. But shock had frozen me. Knowing that you killed someone is one thing, but seeing you with a deadly weapon, threatening my life, was something else. My brain had failed to register that because you had killed one roommate, you're also capable of killing the other. And why not? Better to have no witnesses.

You pull the trigger. Your hand shakes, just a little. The bullet flies, and misses its target. It hits me in the gut instead. You curse, and prepare to fire another shot. This time, I act. The pain made me do it. I jump at you, tackling you. The gun flies out of your hand and slides under the sofa. You reach for it, but I pin you down. I have to kill you somehow, or you'll kill me, but if I let go of you so I can get a weapon, you'll get me. I have to kill you. I reach up to knock you unconscious, so I can get the gun, but I realize that there's something in my hand. The pill bottle. I could kill you with the pills. It'll seem like you killed us, and committed suicide. I pop off the top with my thumb. There were still a lot of pills left. Plenty enough to kill you. I pinch your nose closed, and eventually you have to open your mouth to breathe. Immediately, I cram the pill bottle upside down between your lips, so that the contents fall out into your mouth. I toss the container aside, and force your jaw closed through sheer strength. Reflexively, you swallow. I let go of you. You sit up, hatred in your eyes.

We sit like that for minutes, just staring at each other, waiting to die. Blood gushed out of my bullet wound, but I ignored it. It didn't hurt anymore. The body knew it was going to die, so why bother with pain? On a strange impulse, I reach over and rip off your glasses. I toss them aside. I hear them breaking. I look back at your face. And suddenly I realize something.

"Ans." A pathetic voice. I'm almost dead. "Answer McQuestion. Answer my question. You're him, right? That was your nickname. 'Answer my question'. You ran away. We missed you. Why?" And then I realize that the same question applies me. I ran away too, and screwed up everything. Why? Why did we do that? "Ans... Bro. Mom killed herself because of that. Why did you run away?" I can’t believe we killed each other. Brothers. And you knew all along. Too late now.

You don't answer, instead reaching for the gun. You pull it out. You can't miss this time. Slowly you bring up the gun.

I glance over at the computer, on a low stand next to me. A cheap thing pieced together from parts that other people had thrown out. On the keyboard, the number lock is off. Odd. It's rarely ever seen off. I reach over to turn it back on, then change my mind. Perhaps it's for the better that Num is dead. For the first time, I notice how worn the key is, compared to the other ones. How many hours have you spent sitting there, just pressing that key, and wishing that you could kill him just by turning off the number lock?

Your finger moves to the trigger; you take aim.

On the screen, bold orange text pronounces that "It is now safe to turn off your computer." I reach over, and press the power button.

You pull the trigger. The bullet flies, and finds its mark.