ZERO: The Odd One Out

𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑎𝑐𝑡 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑢𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑎𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡, 𝑜𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑔𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠𝑞𝑢𝑒 𝑑𝑒𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑙𝑠 𝑜𝑓 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑑

—𝑜𝑛𝑙𝑦 𝑖𝑓 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑣𝑒𝑑.

IN THE DEAD OF THE NIGHT, six friends—who each felt like they have known one another for a lifetime—guffaw and chuckle as they bask in the moonlight’s glow. The moonlight spilled onto their faces through the rickety and old window of the familiar classroom. Two of them joked around. One of them whined about going home. Two of them talked too loud. One almost passed out.

The Alcohol Junkie

The Whining Thespian

The Bibliophile

The Know-It-All

The Class President

And The Bestfriend

Each one of them takes another sip from their cups. The Alcohol Junkie tells another joke and they all laugh out loud, laughing as if it’s their last.

They take another sip, the warm liquid from the cup spreading warmth through their spines. The night’s splendor is beautiful in the Junkie’s eyes; the silence is deafening in the Thespian’s ears; the alcohol’s effect curled the Bibliophile’s skin; the drink gagged the Know-It-All’s throat; the laughs of the group replayed in the President’s mind; and the thought of them being alone made the Bestfriend shudder.

The group took one last sip. Their collective laughter shunned out the radio silence of the cold August night. They are all guilty; their present senses of happiness compensated for the inner screams of their conscience. Yet, one of them is more guilty than the rest.

A wrong yearns to be righted. An unjust deserves to be convicted. The sinners must pay, and the price must be blood.

One of them is going to die tonight.