[ 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

I thought I'd get there early, beat the lines. The Department of Legal Homicide opened at 9am. 9am was a foreign concept to me. Sometimes, in my insomniac's stupor, as dusk turned to deep, purple night and then back to rosy dawn, I'd imagine people waking up, making coffee, reading the paper, sitting down to toast. A life like that might as well have been on another planet. But still, I found myself getting into my car at half past eight, groggy, yes, but thrilled, invigorated with the light of the morning sun and the thought of death. 
 
 I pulled into the DLH parking lot at 8:50. The line was already halfway down the block. I knew that the program, since being put to a vote and passed late last year, was popular, but I still was n't expecting this. I also was n't expecting the sort of people I saw standing there, on a bright morning, hungry for blood. I'd expected dark souls, vagabonds, transients with tattooed knuckles and stringy black hair. But there were put together young men, in button-down shirts and khakis. There were old men, grey hair, stooped, in dingy corduroys, who looked like their years of bloodlust should have been well behind them. 
 
 And then there were the women. Young, beautiful women with golden hair and perfect skin, buzzing with life. And old, matronly women with deep creases on their faces, the kind you'd expect to make amazing soup from an ancient, secret recipe. The kind that has taught half the world's daughters how to love, and hate. And there I was, at the DLH, like a child getting his first driver's permit: scared, ecstatic, and relieved. I was so close. 
 
 Once inside, the line shortened. At the front of the queue was a single desk, with a single uniformed employee sitting behind it. They asked for my I.D., and handed me a form on a clipboard. She also gave me a number. `` They'll call you shortly. Please have the paperwork filled out by the time you're called, or you will forfeit your place in line.'' 
 
 With that, I took a seat on a hard, plastic chair. The form was straightforward: My name and address, my intended victim's name and address, and a place to sign on the bottom. That was all. No reason for killing, no place to list my grievances, nothing. 
 
 After what seemed like an eternity, my number was called. The agent in charge of my case looked over my paperwork, signed their name next to mine and stamped the form with a huge, heavy stamp that exuded importance. 
 
 `` You're all set,'' they said. 
 
 `` That's it?'' 
 
 `` That's it.'' 
 
 `` And, they'll know it's happening?'' 
 
 `` Yes, we will notify them for you.'' 
 
 `` How do you do it?'' I asked. 
 
 `` They'll get a certified letter. Do they know to expect it?'' 
 
 `` They do, yes.'' 
 
 `` Good,'' the agent replied, `` That makes things easier.'' 
 
 `` Have you seen a case like this before?'' I asked. I did n't know why I was prolonging the conversation, but there was something comforting about the agent's stark, bureaucratic formality. 
 
 `` Yes. It's quite common, actually. We have a whole file set aside for patricide.'' 
 
 With that, a wave of relief swept over me. There were others. Many others, waking up early, making toast, reading the newspaper. Others, living their entire, normal lives, waiting for the moment, the exact perfect moment, to kill their fathers. 
 
 I took my paperwork and left. I was full of life, leaving the DLH with an exuberance I had n't felt in years. I do n't remember a single thing about the drive to my father's house. I could have run every red light without knowing it. It was n't until I pulled into his driveway that the gravity of the situation hit me. That this was finally happening. 
 
 I've never lost the key to his house, and pulling it out on his front porch, I was overcome with a sense of nostalgia. This key, this tool of entry from one world to another: a secret you share with only those you love and trust. This was one of the last times I'd be using it. Just one more tie to sever. It fit easily in the lock. 
 
 I walked through the living room. None of the lights were on. I could already smell death in this house, he'd been dragging his fetid robes across the tattered carpets for months already. Waiting, like I'd waited, impatiently, hungrily. 
 
 I turned into his bedroom. There he was, in his grey room, on his grey bed, the mattress bowed in the middle like a hammock. It was quiet, except for the repeated, mechanical hiss and whirr of the ventilator. I sat next to him, looked into his cloudy blue eyes. I thought, for a second, he recognized me, but I could never be sure anymore. I kissed him lightly on the forehead. I said `` I love you.'' Then I unplugged the machine. 
 
 Walking out, into the bright light of day, I saw a pair of morning doves on a telephone wire. I heard a dog bark. I saw cars coming and going in their busy ways. I felt everything. I took it all in. And it was fine. 
 
 edit: comma 
 
 Edit2: I woke up to an inbox full of nice things. Thank you!
