The Wrong Wish

Obviously I could not get to sleep at all. My hand kept creeping towards my phone; glancing at the time, wanting to send messages to everyone I knew. At almost two in the morning I threw the cursed piece of technology out of my bachelor flat’s window and waited to hear the crunch of plastic and metal five floors below. The sounds of car alarms, police sirens and the odd bark from a startled dog drifted clear through the night air. I wanted to shout my message from the window – and even opened my mouth – but then I backed down, closed the window and leaned against the icy burglar bars. No one would believe me anyway. Or they would believe me, blame me and probably kill me. I wish I’d never ventured into the antique shop. I wish I didn’t need the part-time job they gave me. I wish I never picked up the owner’s prize piece. I wish I had kept my mouth.

I went back to bed, sliding between the cold sheets and stared at the ceiling as I waited for the world around me to wake up. Soon enough I heard the muffled noises of radios turning on or alarms going off in the flats around me. Lights clicked on, water sloshed through creaking pipes and children raised their voices. Part of me wanted to stay in bed. Most of me wanted to stay there. I would be a liar to say otherwise. It’s not easy to step up to things you’ve done wrong. And this wasn’t something small. I would have to pay for this. Everyone would know what I did. And staying in bed would not make anything better.

My alarm also went off and I got up again, dressing in my best working clothes. I drank a last cup of coffee and even buffed my shoes before heading out the door. I didn’t bother locking the place behind me. Nothing really mattered now. But I could at least look the people of my neighbourhood in the eye before the fan broke under the weight of stuff that would hit it very soon.

I wouldn’t tell any of them, of course. Everyone would soon enough find out what I did and there was no point in creating a panic. I followed my feet through the labyrinth of cracked pavements, hawkers and cars and tried to focus my mind of the beauty of the sunrise and the world waking. If I had to choose one place where I would await my fate (in walking distance from my home, though) it would be the park. Specifically the bench where I always sat after work. It was the best spot really – and the light there was good to read by. And I had read prodigiously. That was probably also why I was so angry at myself at what I did. I had read enough stories to know not to do what I did in that shop. I shouldn’t have picked up the heavy bronze object. I shouldn’t have checked inside. I shouldn’t have buffed it with my sleeve. I should have watched what I was saying at work.

But, then again, I mused as I reached the park at last, why didn’t the man tell me it was a genie and not someone’s ashes in the urn? I thought it was ashes. I honestly did. Otherwise I would have made a better wish. That must be the worst wish anyone had ever made: I wish I could see the end of the world. Stupid, really; only it wasn’t supposed to be a real wish. And the stupid genie didn’t have to be so thrilled to grant the wish.

I looked at my watch. It was 8:45. I thought of telling the people around me that they only had 15 minutes left. But that would cause a panic. And, of course, they would find out soon enough.