Jacob sighed deeply. He didn’t want to do these things; he didn’t want to be this way. Yet, try as he might, the nasty thoughts would begin to swirl in the deeper recesses of his mind. Cursed since childhood with what he affectionately termed his ‘angry ridealong’, Jacob had tried everything you can imagine (and everything you can’t) to rid himself of his dark burden. Meds, counselling, hypnotherapy, even a brief stint in jail for animal abuse. He hated the way the medication made him feel; blunted, stunted and zombified. None of it was effective; before long, the voices would start up. The only effective way to silence them was to kill again. His last victim didn’t put up much of a fight, and he felt genuine remorse at having to take the life of someone so old. They didn’t speak any English, but the plea to be spared transcended language.
Our murderer is tall and strong; with his massive frame and skittering glances, only the brave (or stupid) would feel no fear to find him lurking behind them on a gloomy, silent street. Slung across one broad shoulder is a rucksack containing his latest haul, assorted baubles and gleaming knick-knacks taken from his last victim. Although he took little pleasure in the killings, Jacob was pleased; surely this latest haul would be worth something. The soft hotel bed and a warm shower that these ill-gotten gains provided would surely relieve some of this awful tension, the throbbing at his temples.
Ducking into the sort of alleyway that makes an everyday person shudder (you know the type; badly-drawn graffiti now obscured by years of badly-scrawled tags, overflowing dumpsters, featuring shadowy corners and a small army of rats), Jacob squats down to empty his bag and assess his prizes. Onto the dirty concrete tumbles a variety of items; a brass candlestick holder, a pocket watch, some old coins, various unknowable deities in what perhaps was old ivory… aha, what’s this! A lamp, which if it were gold (as he hoped), would be worth a pretty penny; perhaps it was an antique. It certainly looked very old, to Jacob’s untrained eyes.
The lamp was covered in grime and dust. For a brief moment, he wondered: why someone would keep an antique lamp but never touch it? No matter. What was important right now was ascertaining exactly what this antique was made of. Spitting on his sleeve, Jacob rubbed the lamp in a clockwise motion.
PFFFFFFFFFFFFF went the lamp, a stream of thick purple smoke pouring from the spout. Shocked & surprised, Jacob yelped and dropped it, with a loud “CLANG” as the metal struck the pavement. To his incredulity, the smoke began to take shape; the swirls and sworls folding in upon itself, growing thicker, and what was this… he could have sworn that the smoke was taking the shape of a person.
Seconds ticked by as Jacob sat there, his mouth agape, watching the vapour coalesce until floating before him, no question now, was a genie. Jacob had never seen a genie before, but the folk tales had surprisingly done a solid job in terms of description. What these tales passed down through time had utterly failed to describe though were its eyes. Blazing blue, no sclera, just two round orbs of purest sapphire. As the genie slowly turned its head downwards to fix that azure gaze upon our unfortunate protaganist, Jacob for the first time in his life felt terror.
The genie spoke… if you can call it that. The voice that emerged was as far from human as one can imagine. It rasped like the buzzing of ten thousand wasps; it rushed as if a thousand rivers were converging about your ears; the voice was inexplicably resonant, deep and burring, whilst also having a sharp component like a saw cutting through stone. “YOU, WHO AWAKEN ME FROM SLUMBER. I GRANT THEE WISHES THREE. I CANNOT RAISE FROM UNDER, NOR ALTER LOVE FOR THEE. CHOOSE WISELY, CHOOSE THRICELY”
Jacob’s jaw worked silently for several beats. Like a child in a sweet shop, he was lost to decision paralysis. The nasty voice made itself immediately known: “Kill everyone, Jacob. Wish to kill everyone”. But, fresh from a kill, there was a space for reason too. “If I kill everyone, who will I kill next?” And then; a moment of clarity. A memory.
“Do you know what I am? What kind of man I am?” he asked the genie with trepidation. The djinn nodded, sagely. Jacob took a deep breath and said: “I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to have these thoughts anymore. I don’t want to have to kill people. For my first wish… I wish to not be a murderer anymore!” The smoky beings’ eyes flashed, impossibly a more electric blue than before. It pointed one finger at the man prostrated before it, and boomed “IT IS DONE.” Jacob began to cry, sobbing as he could feel his angry ridealong receding back, back, back, further back into his mind, until with a tiny ‘pop’ it was gone.
With a newfound clarity, an enormous wave of guilt washed over him. The guilt was too much to bear; Jacob felt his heart might burst, so leaden and weighted did it feel in that moment. The thought of going through the remainder of his life with such a burden was almost as bad as carrying the angry ridealong. “I can’t take it! I wish I didn’t feel guilt!” he cried in despair. Another smoky finger extended; “IT IS DONE” boomed the genie.
In an instant, Jacob felt his mind clear. It wasn’t his fault he killed all those people, after all. He was just born wired-up wrong, then the violent childhood and abuse from his parents reinforced the bad wiring. Maybe if society hadn’t failed him, he wouldn’t have become a murderer! It was society’s fault! But alongside the lack of guilt, he noticed something curious. A sort of bored, detached flatness. This would not do. A man needs passions, hobbies, and interests to enjoy life. Anything else is merely existing. And so, Jacob asked for his third wish: “Genie? I wish to have a passion”. The finger extended once more, and that booming, raspy voice for the final time spoke: “IT IS DONE”.
Jacob yawned, and stretched. He felt good again. But there was a nagging itch at the back of his mind… and a quiet, whispering voice began to speak…