Careful What You Say by James Rumpel

The first time I killed someone, I was twelve.

I was in sixth grade and it was the first week of school. Our teacher was a young man named Mr. Horn. He was inexperienced and, to be honest, not very good. He had no control. We ran roughshod over him. By the third day, he was so flustered that he shouted a swear word and stormed out of the room.

As soon as the door slammed, I turned to my friend, William Forseth, and predicted, “That guy isn’t going to last a week.”

Mr. Horn hung himself that weekend.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. I have no reason to feel that I killed Mr. Horn. You’re right. At the time, I made no connection. However, there is much more to my story.

When I was a sophomore in high school, I killed someone famous. I was at a party, just a few friends getting together. We were playing some silly game where each of us wrote down the name of a person that fit a category. Then, we took turns guessing who wrote what name. The category for our first round was “famous living person.”

The kid in charge was reading off the names so we could start guessing and one of the names was Joseph Portman. You know, the actor from that sit-com in the ’80s about an old man who goes back to college and lives in the dorms.

“Wait,” I shouted. “We can’t use that name.”

“Why not?” asked Mary Repski.

“Joseph Portman is dead.”

“No, he isn’t” replied Mary.

“I’m sure he is,” I said. “I don’t remember where I heard it, but he is dead.”

A quick check on the internet proved me wrong. The Wikipedia page said he was born in 1939 but didn’t list a date of death.

We continued the game, never giving it a second thought.

About three hours later, when we were starting to leave, Mary grabbed me by the shoulder. She showed me her phone and the newsfeed that had just appeared. “1980s sit-com star, Joseph Porter, died tonight at the age of eighty-one.”

“Wow,” said Mary, “What an amazing coincidence.”

That’s all I thought it was, too.

It was about three years later that I started to put things together.

I was a freshman in college. The campus was close to Rocky Cliff Park. One Saturday, my roommate and I went hiking along the river. The trail wound through beautiful tall stone bluffs, overlooking the river. While walking, we spotted some bright touches of color across the water. Some guys were rock climbing. One of them, wearing a bright yellow shirt, was nearing the top of a two-hundred-foot-tall cliff. His shouts of joy echoed all around.

Maybe I was a little jealous of his skill and bravery. I, honestly, don’t know why but I turned to my roommate and said, “That idiot’s going to fall and kill himself.”

We watched for another minute before continuing our hike. Less than thirty seconds later, we heard a scream followed by frantic yelling. We raced back to the overlook and watched with horror as the climbers gathered around an oddly contorted body lying on the rocks.

The body wore a yellow shirt.

That night, as I recounted the tragedy to some of the guys in my dorm. While telling the story, I realized this was the third time when I had said someone was dead or going to die and the person died soon after. I didn’t share this information, but I thought about it a great deal that night. I was certain that if I stated that someone was going to die, they would.

I know, you’re going to insist that the events were merely coincidences. I tried to convince myself of the same thing. Just to be safe, I promised myself to never say anything even close to calling for someone’s passing again.

I did pretty well for the next two years. I started to become more of a loner, avoiding people as much as possible. It was important that I was alone if I were to ever slip and say something deadly. The only time I messed up was last March when the big snowstorm hit. I was coming home from the library when I noticed my landlord, Mr. Cooper, struggling to shovel the front walk. I asked him for the shovel and volunteered to finish for him.

I said, “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack. Let me do it.”. Mr. Cooper died that night.

I became more of a hermit after that. I dropped out of school. Got a job as a night watchman at the local mall. I’ve barely spoken to a soul for the last eight months. Things were going well. That is until last night.

I bet you have a good guess where I am going with this. That is, if you watched the news this morning. I didn’t mean to say it. It just slipped out. Even after all of these years, I don’t understand the rules.

I spend a lot of my time watching sports. I’m a huge college football fan. Yesterday, I was in a convenience store when the guy behind the counter noticed I was wearing a Tech sweatshirt. He must have been a State fan because he said, “The only way Tech has a chance to win is if half the State team is killed in a plane crash on the way to the game.”

All I said was, “Tech is going to win.” I didn’t say the plane would crash or that 29 players would die, but I know I caused last night’s crash. I am responsible for all those players dying.

That’s why I sat on this bench and started talking to you. I wanted to tell someone my story but I also want you to hear what I am about to say. It’s very important that I say it out loud for you to hear.

I am going to die before I ever kill someone again.

“That’s what he told me, Officer,” concluded the old woman. “He just sat down on the bench and started telling me his story. I think he really believed it. Can I go now?”

The policeman nodded his head. “Yeah, I’ve got your statement. There’s no reason to stay. We’ll stay by the body and keep the area blocked off until the coroner arrives.”