[ WP ] You are legally allowed to commit murder once , but you must fill out the proper paperwork and your proposed victim will be notified of your intentions

The letter was cold, harsh. It sat on my fingers like an autumn leaf in the middle of July. In my rustic craftsman house, its sanitized feel stood out. It should n't be there. 
 
 `` Dear Mr. Elkman, 
 We regret to inform you that J. H. Younger has scheduled your murder for sometime this week. Please prepare yourself. 
 
 Sincerely, 
 
 Andrew Cooper, Planned Homicide Commision'' 
 
 I had no idea who J. H. Younger was. 
 
 
 I've been on edge all week, thinking, pacing in my house, wondering. What had I done wrong? What would possess a man to use his one murder on me? 
 
 I ca n't sleep, or eat. I can hardly breathe. I've contemplated suicide, just to screw with whoever did this. Fuck you, you ca n't kill me, I'll kill myself, you know. 
 
 I ca n't stop talking. My stream of consciousness leaks out of my mouth like sludge from a drainage pipe. I do n't talk to anyone, but keeping my words in the air around me distracts me from the eventual smell of death occupying the same space. 
 
 Anyone walking by my door can look through the front window to get a first-rate glimpse of a lunatic-in-training. They see me and shrug. That's the worst part. They know what's coming, but they do n't, ca n't realize the gravity of the situation. 
 
 Once, a kid came up to the door and knocked. I had been in the back for two seconds, and someone comes to my door. I nearly had a heart attack. 
 
 But it was just a kid, selling something that I ca n't remember. I bought more of it than I could afford. Hell, I wo n't be around for my next credit card bill. 
 
 I want to tear off my skin and fly it as a flag from my bedroom window. Then I'll feel something other than this crippling fear. I want to laugh at the people's reactions, I want to feel the sensation of pain again. I cut off one of my fingers already, just to feel it. I felt everything again, a sickly combination of euphoria and trauma. 
 
 That was a mistake. I almost became addicted to the pain, the grotesque panic that comes with a bleeding and missing appendage. As I replace the gauze for the 14th time, I hear a knock on my door. 
 
 A knock. 
 
 Those are the rules, after all. No doorbells, no, those are too friendly. It's strictly business here. It's all been bureaucratized. Nothing less than the utmost professionalism for our adorable little murderous brigade. 
 
 As I shuffle feebly to the door, I realize that if every single person on the planet had this right, and not just us Americans, we could destroy the entire human race. Thank God there's only 340,000,000 people who can die at the hands of this ridiculous rule. 340,000,000 and counting. Every new baby can murder someone too. Oh god, this will not ever end. 
 
 I open the door just a crack. Outside, there's a woman, in a beautiful sundress. 
 
 Thank god, I think. I'm in the clear. J. H. Younger can suck it. 
 
 I let her in cordially. She smiles, asks me how am I. I'm fine, just a little nervous, about what, oh nothing. What happened to my finger, she asks, oh, it's a great story, Ms... 
 
 Younger, she says. 
 
 I stare blankly. My mind has stopped. 
 
 Julia Helen Younger, in fact. 
 
 I can not move. My breath is caught in my neck, and invisible hand choking the life out of me. I feel like dying, but she sits so calmly, so high-and-mighty. She has power, but I need that power. I need it more than anything. 
 
 I grab the gun she places on the table and put it to my head. 
 
 `` This is what you want!'' I yell. What an animal I've become; it's not even a question, it's a statement. 
 
 She smiles. She pities my. That goddamn whore, I'll fucking kill her first. Murder-suicide is better than the planned homicide bullshit that would've run in the Sunday Morning Obituaries. 
 
 `` I have one question first.'' 
 
 Fuck your questions, I want to say, but even in my moment of greatest weakness I have my manners. 
 
 `` Did you think I was a man?'' 
 
 What a stupid question. I did, but that's completely irrelevant. It was merely a guess I made, it does n't relate to anything, and I tell her so. I see the raging fire in her eyes. 
 
 `` I'm killing you because you're a sexist, you know.'' 
 
 I lower the gun slowly. What? 
 
 `` Sexism is a terrible plague on this world, and as a member of the Women's Rights League, Atlanta division, I strive to purge this disease, this blemish from the Earth's surface.'' 
 
 She's mad. 
 
 She's completely fucking insane. 
 
 I smile at her, and begin to laugh. I'm gone at this point. No more rationality. I want death, and death alone, and this hypocrite is going to bring that sweet hammer upon my head. 
 
 `` I guess we were made for each other then,'' I cry through my tears of laughter. She scowls, sneers, squeezes.
