The Cost of a Life            

The man slipped into the empty room, surreptitiously glancing around with the air of one about to commit a felony. His sandy-brown hair was covered with a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. Like the rest of the man’s clothes, it looked as though it had once been expensive, but had become jaded over constant wear and tear. Of all his features, his hazel eyes, more brown that green, were most salient. They had a malignant gleam to them, scaring anyone unfortunate to look in them too long. He was young, but there was no sense of callowness about him.

            In the middle of the room stood a grand oak table, set for a meal of fifteen people. Around the border of the table were placed cards, which the intruder proceeded to read names off of. He went through them all, until stopping before one labeled Simora. The tableware set at this seat was richly decorated, making the others look slovenly in comparison. Cautiously, the man took out a pouch and mixed some of its powder into the wine in the glass chalice He smeared some of the powder along the chalice as well, leaving a slight blue rim to mark it.

            Just as he was about to congratulate himself, footsteps sounded outside the door. Just as the door opened, the mysterious man had sprinted into the bathroom. Several guests had arrived, and one sat down at the seat the man had carefully marked. After a few moments, a smartly dressed man walked out of the bathroom and sat at the seat next to Mr. Simora. He was addressed as Mr. Con Chimaera, but the way his hazel eyes laughed told curious observers that it was not his real name.

            The last seat was full, and the room was filled with talk and laughter. Mr. Simora chatted brightly with Con, while the latter grinned like a wolf, eyes dancing with cunningness. The man sitting at the head of the table rose, and instantly the talk died. Smiling, the head announced, “I would like to thank Mr. Henry Simora for hosting this wonderful meal, in celebration of the success of his company’s newest oil mine.”

            Mr. Simora rose as well, and accepted the thanks with a gracious nod. His clean cut white hair and gray eyes gave the impression of a business man with no moral values. “Thank you for those kind words, John. It is wonderful that my company is progressing so well, but I just hope that Con here will be able to take over, should anything happen.”

            “Oh, I doubt anything is going to happen, Uncle,” Con reassured. “After all, this is just a gathering of old friends; what could go wrong?” For the rest of the hour, the men conversed with each other. At precisely 5:00, just as most of the gathered had finished off their desserts, a knock sounded at the door. Before anyone could answer it, the door flew off its hinges and landed on the other side of the room.

            In three men stalked imperiously, guns at their belts and ruthlessness in their movements. “Sorry to interrupt,” the taller man drawled as he came to a halt before the door. “I just thought that a gathering of rich people might give way to a lot of rich ransoms, see.” He seemed to be the leader, and had a scar running along one of his coal black eyes. Along with the muscles and shaved head, he gave a scary image.

            “You three all alone?” John Rutherford huffed haughtily. Quick as lighting, the second man drew his gun and fired a shot. Mr. Rutherford flew back. Though the wound was not fatal, everyone could see the sting and pain must hurt very much.

            “If I give you five thousand dollars, cash, right now, will you leave us alone?” demanded Mr. Simora, though weakly. During the winter months he often caught a cold, and in the gray December night, fear had brought his cough back. It took away some of the boldness of the offer.

            “Only five thousand?” The leader said, pretending to think of the offer. His henchmen raise their guns threateningly. With a shake of his head and a cruel smile on behalf of their leader, gunshots rang out. Most ran out the door, but Mr. Rutherford and Mr. Simora were caught in the shower of bullets. Con raised himself warily, but the guns seemed to have run out of ammunition. The leader noticed Con and said, “You get let off easy. Just don’t cross our paths in a dark alley…” and with that, they were gone, taking every piece of silverware and every cent still left in the room.

            “Con…” His uncle’s voice seemed distant. With wavering fingers, a will was drawn. Mr. Simora smiled. “I had a feeling something like this would happen. Here is my will. The inheritance is all yours.” And with that, he passed away. Con had made an effort to look properly grim as his uncle spoke, but he gave up as soon as he was sure all present in the room were dead.

            He toasted himself with the glass chalice, of which his uncle had not drunk a sip. Not only was the inheritance his, and his uncle dead, but he was not responsible! No one could blame him for being the only survivor! Giving a contented sigh, Con Chimaera sipped the wine until the last drop was gone.

Just as Con was about to rise, a sudden pain overtook him. Gripping his stomach, he tried to reach the bathroom. Two minutes later found him upon the floor with his uncle and Mr. Rutherford, dead, the will in his hands. The Californian sunset’s golden rays flitted through a window, playing on the glass chalice, throwing rainbows around the room. Over the dead faces, though, especially Con’s, a blue shadow rested, left by the rim of the cup Con had just drank from.