[ WP ] You are given a deal by a higher power that grants you eternal life . The catch ? You have to kill one person every year . If you fail do do so , even a minute too late , you will die .

My mother's last wish before she died was for me to take care of our family's most significant possession - the Kunta Tree Farm. When she came to this country at the age of nineteen, her father had given her his entire estate in his will ( in her previous country, it was shameful for a woman to not divorce a man who was seriously ill before the age of 50 and she had no siblings ) and, knowing she had no future in her homeland, she sold her father's possessions for around fifteen thousand dollars, and made her way to the United States. 
 
 Many immigrants wish for this amount of money before coming to `` the land of opportunity,'' but not my mother. When she landed in Northern California, she once told me, the only thing she instantly loved were these trees that touched the sky and extended far over the horizon. 
 
 `` I wanted it.'' That was her explanation when I asked her why she spent all her inheritance on a tree farm. `` No, I needed it,'' she'd say. `` These trees will bless our family.'' 
 
 She got up everyday at six in the morning to work on the farm. At eight in the evening she came home, made sure I understood my homework from online school, and went to bed, to do the same thing the next day. She sacrificed her happiness by marrying the community drunk ( who, somehow, had a large inheritance of his own ), just so that we had an income and some kind of support while my mother worked on her `` priceless garden.'' 
 
 `` Take care of the farm. Only you can do it.'' Her last words severed my hatred for her, my father, and the farm I once thought was the most wretched abomination possible. 
 
 That day I came home from the hospital, I kicked my father out of the house, drank two bottles of whiskey ( like father, like son, right? ), and celebrated my 21st birthday alone, my eyes depleting my body ’ s water supply. 
 
 After that day, I continue my mother ’ s mission. 
 
 -- -- -- - 
 
 `` We do n't know what's wrong with you,'' the doctor said. `` I just know that you are going to die very, very soon.'' 
 
 What was I to do? I was a forty-two-year-old man with no wife, no child, and shitty Internet service. I prayed everyday for forty days, hoping that He may give me enough time to finish my mother ’ s mission. `` God, please save me from my family's curse.'' 
 
 But an unexpected visitor answered my call. One day, a smooth man dressed in the most perfect suit, donning the most fitting goatee, and sporting the slickest haircut materialized on my coffee table. 
 
 `` Hello, silly little man,'' he greeted me. I greeted him back with a baseball bat, but, right before I was to smack ( more like pummel, actually ) him, the bat turned to dust. 
 
 I ran to my phone, but that too, dematerialized. 
 
 “ Where did you come from? ” I shrieked. 
 
 “ I ’ m God, am I not? The guy you ’ ve been talking to all this while, ” he said as he pulled a lollipop from his pocket and sucked on it. 
 
 “ Don ’ t play games, man, ” I said, inching away from him. It seemed he wasn ’ t too much of a treat, but I still kept my guard up. 
 
 He smirked. “ Course you don ’ t believe. No one believes. Maybe if I wear white… ” 
 
 “ Please get off my property, ” I said. 
 
 “ Now, now, ” he said, pulling out a piece of paper. “ You want to live longer, just sign on the line. ” 
 
 I moved closer. Processing the last few seconds, it seemed more likely that this guy was who he said he was. 
 
 “ Are you really God? ” I asked. 
 
 “ I already said yes, ” he told me. “ Just sign. ” 
 
 I had no reason to believe him. Maybe these were the miracles people talked about. I would not let my chance pass away. If for no one else ’ s sake but my mothers ’, I will end our curse. I picked up the pen on the kitchen counter. I didn ’ t even bother to read the provisions; I was so desperate, so trusting. 
 
 I signed on the dotted line. 
 
 “ Odd name, ” he said. “ Kunta Kenen. ” 
 
 We shook hands, and the contract magically rolled up into his sleeve, confirming my beliefs that he was God. 
 
 “ Have a nice day, ” God said, crunching the rest of his lollipop and disappearing in front of my eyes. 
 
 I am now 639 years old. The world doesn ’ t know who I am, because everyone who has ever seen me has died. Every time I see a new person, I get an unstable urge, a bloodlust so vile and despicable, I…I can ’ t even describe…. 
 
 I was eventually forced to leave my home; too many people wanted to know about the “ mystery Kunta murders. ” Every year, I must feast on a human. The other option is to let “ God ” take over and to commit acts so evil upon humanity that the lesser evil is preferred. 
 
 I own no tree farm. I have no family. My curse was replaced by an even greater curse. My God is my only enemy. I have nothing to live for, yet I have an eternity to live. 
 
 Mother, tomorrow I must feast. Tomorrow, I will once again shame you. 
 
 Tomorrow, I will be 640 years old. 

