The Fatal New Year

“Ten! Nine! Eight!” the crowd is shouting. The year 1993 has finally come to a close. It’s officially 1994. The year of Forest Gump, Pulp Fiction, Ace of Base’s big hit “The Sign,” and “I Swear” by All-4-One. Bill Clinton is still in office, and McDonald’s Big Mac is under three dollars. What a year. The first time I went through this year, I was only eight. I was too young to care about much of any of its highlights except the Big Mac, of course. Now I find it a glorious time to return to. Through all the time periods I’ve experienced, the 1990s seem to be one of the pinnacle times in human existence. The economy was booming, and people were filled with hope and promise for the new millennium. Nothing has ever been so beautiful as watching the hope fade from someone’s eyes. What could be a better time to do what I do than in a time of so much hope? It also helps that there are no cameras around; fingerprinting and dental DNA testing aren’t as widespread. Also, being able to transport myself to any time in history has kept me off the radar of police. It is much easier to live my joy. 

Murder is the only thing that satisfies me. I feel in control while watching my victims lose their lives. I feel at peace watching the hope fade from their expressions. I keep my hands buried in my pockets as the fireworks light off in the sky and confetti falls like rain. There are couples around me kissing, friends hugging, and jumping up and down. “Auld Lang Syne” echoes loudly through the space. So full of hopes and promises. Everyone believes this is truly going to be their year; everything is magical, and it’s all going to be better from now on. I smile to myself. 

I slip through the unsuspecting people and towards the increasing darkness. The numbers are thinner out here. The police and barricades are doing their best to keep all the people within the square, but there’s too much happening for them to catch everything. I continue to move to the back of the crowd. Some people look at me, noting that I look out of place, but beyond that they pay me no mind. All I need is one. Someone will look just a little too long. 

I can see the final edge of the crowd behind me and brush up against a man standing alone. I half turn around with a smirk. 

“Excuse me,” I grumble. The man looks at me and keeps looking. I turn away from him as my smile widens. 

I quicken my pace towards the back of the crowd. I can already tell he’s following me. I start to feel almost giddy and position myself between the back of the crowd and an open dark alleyway. 

“Hey, wait,” the man calls. He grips my shoulder and turns me around. I could see the moment my eyes met his that he recognized me. The recognition was quickly replaced with confusion and fear. I didn’t hesitate. I pulled out my more modern handheld taser and zapped him in the gut. He fell into my arms. I looked around, but no one was paying attention to us. I quickly dragged him into the dark alley and towards the car that I had waiting. I made sure he was tied down tightly and unable to move.

The moment he had his mobility back, he started screaming, but it was much too late. I drove until I reached the Hudson River cliffs and parked dangerously close to the edge. I pulled out a suppressed Glock 19, aiming at him carefully. He quickly stopped crying out. I noticed now that he had a steady stream of tears down his face. 

“What is happening? Why are you doing this?” he asked. I sighed. Is a little creativity in the questions too much to ask for? 

“I think the question really should be, how am I doing this, don’t you think?” I snarl back. Confusion whispers across his face again. 

“What do you mean? You have a gun….” he muttered. I roll my eyes. 

“You recognized me. That’s why you followed me,” I clarified. The man frowned and glanced panickedly in all directions. 

“You look like… You look like this author my Dad used to read. But that guy would be like in his seventies now… you’re obviously not actually Roger Reins.” 

I smirk widely, keeping my eyes and gun locked on the man in front of me. 

“I am, though. If you had read my books as well, you would note this scene looks familiar…” I hint. The man’s eyes widen, my smile along with them. 

“The killer on the coast…” he mutters. “But how? How are you here? You barely look my age….” 

“Aw, yes. Well, it seems they were right when they said all fiction is based on truth. Special superhuman abilities are not fiction, it seems, just extremely rare. Additionally, they are not as all-power-encompassing as Superman would have you believe; we all have a weakness much more intense than green glowing rocks. See, I was born with the ability to travel through time; however, each time I use the power, I grow physically weaker. I am unable to match your strength, so I have to use other means; hence this,” I stated, nodding towards the gun. The man swallowed hard and seemed to be pondering what I’d told him. 

“So you went back to the seventies, or you're from the seventies, became an author and wrote books detailing how you wanted to kill people?” he asked. I rolled my eyes again. 

“It sounds senseless and boring when you say it like that,” I scoffed. Tears fell harder, and he narrowed his eyes at me. 

“I think all murder is senseless. Why are you doing this?” 

I groaned. 

“Every time someone faces the edge of life, a moment of panic, a dangerous situation, they become alive in a different way. Their sense of desperation and hope for survival shines like a beacon in their eyes. I’ve seen it many times. It’s almost miraculous to witness, but as soon as the threat to their life passes, the spark does as well. They go back to their dull, average existence. Then I found something even more beautiful. When the spark fades for a different reason: when they realize all hope is useless, and their death is unavoidable. Something different consumes them, and the expression - the hopelessness is the most delicious thing I’ve ever experienced.” 

“So you captured me and want to kill me only to see me give up hope of survival?” the man echoed. He sounded hollow now. He was almost there. 

“I want you to show me that spark. I want you to show me something beautiful. Perhaps, if you can show me that hopeful spark can survive beyond the moment of danger, I’ll let you live.” 

The man swallowed hard again, and a new rising expression filled up his face. It was a mixture of fear, hope, and something else I could not recognize. It was delightful. I settled in to continue playing my favorite game.