I Am Dangerous

Olivier Breuleux
on May 31, 2016

If someone asked you who the most dangerous person in the world was, your first thought would probably be of a serial killer, a Jack the Ripper copycat looming in the streets of Chicago or New York, of a religious extremist blowing themselves up in a crowded mall in the name of some god or another, of the maniac who told them to do it, or you may think of the president of the United States of America.

You would be wrong, however. None of these human beings, villainous and machiavellian as they may be, can be dangerous at every moment of their life. Some have been innocent children. Some try to cover up their evil with a few good deeds. Others are only dangerous for the time it takes for their fingers to brush a big red button. But no one can be dangerous every second that they live, with the exception of myself.

You could say it is a curse. I was born an orphan: in my hurry to be born, I tore apart my mother's womb. My father died shortly after. Of grief, I was told. When I was three, I accidentally kicked a ball under my foster mother's heel, sending her careening down a flight of stairs. She broke her neck on the last step. A few years after that, I put an egg in the microwave oven and my father, hurrying to turn it off, opened the door instead. The egg burst into his eyes. I never wanted to hurt anyone, you understand, but the universe conspires to make my every move into a deadly circumstance, as if every little thing I do sets into motion the dominoes of someone else's fate. People tried to reassure me, they said it was bad luck. I would like that, because bad luck never lasts.

In my teenage years, I managed to get myself liked–loved, perhaps–by a girl, and the joy I felt was enough to free my spirit from its morbid thoughts. Oh, I was so happy I could fly! For Valentine's day I had drawn on a card for her, a watercolor painting of a small puppy inside a heart. Alas! She cut her finger on the paper while trying to open it, the wound festered, and in spite of all care and logic, she passed away. From that day onwards, love wasn't an option.

Work brought me no solace. I was hired at Kentucky Fried Chicken–a coworker dove head first into boiling oil on my first day. I sold cars at a dealership–they all crashed. I bought stock–the companies went bankrupt. I sold a Bible to a man–he bludgeoned his wife to death with it.

I was not legally responsible, obviously. I never am. To spread evil, I only need to go about my day, I only have to exist. My every move is at the source of a perverted butterfly effect leading up to the worst cataclysms. Every hurricane and typhoon in the world, every earthquake, every genocide can be traced back to the rhythm of my steps.

So don't take it upon yourself to try to save my life, sir, you would lose yours. My skin's every pore hides a germ that could kill you, every beat of my heart conspires to make this bridge crumble. You don't know what it is like to be cursed. You don't know how it feels to be responsible for the deaths of thousands of innocent bystanders.

What do you say? That I exaggerate? That my story is improbable, impossible, absurd? That I am making it all up? You are a good man, but do not bother yourself with my fate, I have made up my mind. Farewell, and bless your heart.

What are you doing? No! Don't grab onto me!

Oh, that's rich. Now we're falling together.

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