Hypo-Stition

a short story

It was a curious time to get a knock on the door, he thought, rising from his armchair. Mid-evening. No beep from the intercom. Perhaps the caretaker. Something wrong with the rubbish shute again?

At the door stood three attractive young women. One in front, two behind. He felt his head pull back slightly, involuntarily. Excitement and worry. Who were they? What were they doing here? Why hadn’t they buzzed? Then again, who cared?

“Are you Mr *****? The writer?”

“Yes,” he replied carefully, not yet sure how much he wished to confirm this.

“May we come in?”

“Come in? Why, uhm. I mean, who are you? It’s a bit late, you know.” He played for time, not wishing to be too hasty in closing the door on such attractive young women. It had been so long.

“Late?” The lead one looked at her watch. “Only 7.30pm. Not late, I think.”

“Well, okay,” he said. “But I’m, you know, old. I go to bed early.”

“May we come in? It won’t take long.”

“But who are you? You have to tell me who you are, don’t you? Don’t you have lanyards, or badges?”

“Badges?”

“You know, identification. ID.”

“Oh, yes. We’re the Order of Structured Fates.”

Recognition dawned suddenly. “Oh, fans. Yes, I see. Of course. Well, I suppose…” He opened the door wide and stepped back.

The three young women entered, the last closing the door behind her. He led them into the living room, gesturing with his arm to apologise for the smallness and state of his flat.

“It’s not much, I know. But feel free to grab the sofa.” He moved back towards his armchair, twisting it round to face them.

“I think we’d prefer to stand actually.”

This shocked him. Strange. He too remained standing. He took them in once again. So strange to have women in his flat after all these years. Since the last one left. They were in the same formation. The most attractive at the front, clearly some kind of spokeswoman. Long dark hair, quite properly dressed, though with one more button of her white blouse undone than one might have expected. The others behind her, silent. One darker skinned, perhaps Malaysian? Just watching him.

“So…” he began.

“Yes,” she said. “We felt it important to visit, even after all these years. You see your story, well, it quite swept us away.”

He relaxed. Home ground. He knew this terrain. The young woman continued.

“We were assigned it last year…”

“Assigned?” Recognition dawned again. “Ah, of course. Students. Literature students.”

“Yes. You see, our professor was quite young, progressive. He felt we should read banned books. See what our culture sought to keep from us; make up our own minds…”

“... and so he gave you The Order of Structured Fates?”

“Exactly. And, you know. It quite blew us away.” The two girls behind both nodded. They still hadn’t made a sound though. He continued, knowing this track well.

“And so you looked me up and came to pay me a visit; to ask some questions?”

“Well…”

He continued blindly. “Look, I’m sorry. But you must understand. I wrote that book when I was much younger. I really don’t have those views anymore. Don’t think I’m not ungrateful that you came all this way to visit me but…”

She cut in. “You were our age. It was your first book. It made you famous, getting banned like that. Notoriety. And, after that, you never quite…” She broke off, clearly not wanting to embarrass him.

He looked at the rug for a moment. “It’s okay. I do know. Of course I know. You were going to say that I never quite lived up to that early promise, weren’t you? That I’ve ended up precisely like the kind of person I so used to despise.”

“The OSF was so incredible, sir. It took so deep a hold of us. How you laid it out, like building a pathway, step by step. The whole of evolution. How everything we ever do, we do in the shadow of our death - this omniscient spectre that haunts our every moment, waking or otherwise. Our whole biology; how every cell has been programmed through natural selection to mindlessly continue, rendering our whole existence a mere slave to our fear of death. How we’ll never have any self-respect as individuals, as a species, until we can demonstrably show that our fear of death no longer jerks us around like puppets.”

The others nodded vigorously, similarly enthused. He spoke.

“And now you come here and see me, as I am today. You come to tell me how I’ve become what I most despised?”

She looked at him directly. “No! We have come to help. We have come to do what must be done.”

He looked at her, concerned. “What must be done?”

“Sir. We are The OSF. We are The Order of Structured Fates.”

He took a step back, suddenly concerned. This wasn’t going the way it usually did. He lifted both hands, as though preparing to push something away.

“No, wait. It’s just a book. It’s just an idea. Something to reflect upon. A lens through which to see your life; a way to identify what you truly care about; what makes your life meaningful. It’s just a book. You’re just students.”

“Not any more.”

“Not any more?”

“Sir, we dropped out. We’re students no more. After reading the OSF, we couldn’t continue. Couldn’t simply live out the lie. You set us free. We’re eternally grateful.”

“Grateful?” His mind began to conjure possibilities, sexual ideas. She continued.

“Yes, of course. And so we began the actual movement. And, of course, we knew where to start. You yourself must have known.”

“Known?”

“Yes. That one day this would happen. That one day you would be standing here facing the destiny that you created. Created for yourself.”

Panic began to seize him. He glanced around. Through the kitchen, the fire escape. Yes, that could work. Oh, damn and blast. That window. He’d meant to get it fixed. It would have to be the front door. No other option. Could he get there? One of the silent ones did look rather muscular.

“Sir, come on. You do see, don’t you? It has to be this way. If you do it, then that will kickstart the OSF into a global movement. Nothing will be able to stop us. But it must begin with you. It’s not too late.”

He said nothing, saving his energy for movement. He took a step to the left. The two silent women began to fan out, the more beefy one blocking the route to the front door. It was starting. He could feel it.

“Please, sir. It doesn’t have to be this way. Can’t you just see the logic of it, the rationality?”

He continued looking frantically about him. Then spoke again. “For God’s sake, it was just a book. Just a story. This is madness.”

“Sir, come on. We know you used to believe. You are the story’s creator, after all. It came through you.”

“That was decades ago. I’m completely different now.” He started to run towards the door. Suddenly he felt the woman’s arms around his waist. Then his feet were swept from under him. He was on his back. She sat on his pelvis, her hands pinning his biceps, leaning over him, her face impassive.

“Miriam, sir. She did judo throughout her teenage years. Her father, you see.”

“Damn her father. This is insanity. You can’t just kill me.” He tried to squirm.

She squatted down beside him, her blouse still slightly open. The underlying sexuality of the situation pressed upon him, despite the terror. So many years. He shouldn’t have let it go for so long.

“Please don’t try to scream, sir.” She reached into her trouser pocket and pulled out some lengths of white material.

“Oh, Christ! White fucking satin.”

“Of course, sir. We’ve got to do this properly. Got to follow the script. It’s the first one, after all.”

He heard a strange whooshing sound from the other side of the room and twisted his head jerkily to look. The remaining woman had a can of paint in her hand and was beginning to spray letters on his wall. The other explained.

“OSF, sir. We have to do it properly. People have to join the dots.”

He nodded his head weakly. It was true. He had wondered if this would happen; had wondered about it for years. There in the back of his mind. Had even insisted on living in a basement flat for a decade. But it hadn’t. Somewhere, as he’d got older, it had felt like he’d got off scot free. Evaded fate. It must have been twenty years since he’d even thought about it. He began to speak again.

“Look! Listen to me. You’ll regret this. You’ll grow older and regret it. Trust me, I know. It’s just part of being young. Crazy ideas possess us. That’s just how it is. We don’t care about the consequences. But we grow up.”

She spoke, leaning a little forward from her crouched position. He couldn’t help but peek into her blouse, feeling immediately sneaky. Her voice was sincere.

“We know, sir. That’s why we have to do this now. Whilst the fire is still behind our eyes. You realise that, don’t you, sir?”

He nodded weakly, tears forming in his eyes. “But, it will happen to you too. You do know that, don’t you? Your precious OSF will one day come after you. It will be you, an older you, lying here on the floor, ready to be trussed up and hurled out of a window.”

She replied calmly, reassuringly. “Yes, we know. We accept our fate, accept our part in the great chain. It is how it is.”

Her graffiti complete, the other joined them. He turned to see her, expecting to find no mercy on her face. She took a syringe from her jacket pocket. The other spoke again.

“Would you rather be drugged, sir? You did leave that option open all those years ago, didn’t you?”

He shook his head. Why was he doing that? He didn’t know. She nodded to her friends. He felt himself turned over and his hands and feet tied with the pieces of satin. Another was put around his head and mouth as a gag. They began to lift him. He heard the window open and one of them wrestle with the safety catch. Probably the muscular one, he figured. Cold air rushed in. It was dark. No one would see. His belt caught on the latch and he felt a sudden pain as it jabbed into his belly. He wanted to cry out and tell them to be more careful. He heard her apologise as they lifted him higher. As a sob left his body he felt something soar up from deep within. Finally, it was done.