The Unkillable Man

John

“I think I’m cursed.”

Dr. Jasmina Reyes blinked. Once. Twice.

Then she carefully set her pen down on the notebook resting in her lap. The office was exactly what I imagined a therapist’s office would look like.

Soft lighting. Bookshelves. A plant that looked expensive. A couch that somehow made me feel both comfortable and judged at the same time.

Dr. Reyes sat across from me in a chair, calm and professional. I, meanwhile, was trying to figure out how to explain the last four months of my life without sounding completely insane.

“Okay,” she said gently. “Why do you think you’re cursed?”

I laughed. Not because it was funny. Because there wasn’t really another appropriate response.

“See, that’s the problem.”

“What is?” She asked gently.

“I know how this sounds.”

She gave me a small smile.

“I’ve been doing this for twelve years, John. I’ve heard a lot.”

I nodded.

“Yeah.” Then I nodded again.

“That’s what worries me.”

Her smile faltered slightly. I took a deep breath. Where did someone even start with this? The dead customer? The mailman? The neighbor? The breakup? The fact that I was beginning to get nervous whenever someone stood too close to me?

Honestly, it all sounded ridiculous. And yet here I was. Thirty-eight years old. Successful business owner. Pharmacist. Dog dad.

Sitting in therapy because I was starting to believe I might be some kind of walking disaster.

Dr. Reyes picked her pen back up.

“Let’s start at the beginning.”

I stared at the floor for a second. The beginning. That seemed simple enough. Except the beginning had ended with a funeral.

“Do you know what Johnny’s is?”

She looked up.

“The convenience store?” She paused “And pharmacy. Right?”

I pointed at her.

“Thank you. Most people forget the pharmacy part.”

The corner of her mouth twitched.

“I’ll make a note.”

“You joke, but it’s a real problem.”

“John.” She said patiently.

“Sorry.”

I rubbed the back of my neck. Nervous habit. Always had been.

“Anyway. I own Johnny’s.”

“Okay.”

“I’ve owned it for seven years.”

She nodded and scribbled something in her notebook.

“It does well. Nothing crazy. Just a small-town pharmacy and convenience store.”

“You enjoy it?” She asked.

“I love it.”

And that part was true. I loved my store, my employees and knowing customers by name. I loved helping little old ladies find things that were directly in front of them. I even loved arguing with insurance companies. Most days.

Dr. Reyes made another note.

“What about your personal life?”

I snorted. That should have been my first warning.

“My girlfriend left me.”

“When?” She asked confused.

“Three weeks ago.” I sighed.

“I’m sorry.”

I shrugged.

“Honestly? I get it.”

That got her attention.

“You understand why she left?”

“Well…” I hesitated.

“Most people’s boyfriends aren’t accidentally connected to four deaths.”

Her pen stopped moving. The room suddenly felt very quiet. Dr. Reyes looked at me carefully.

“Four deaths?” She repeated.

“At the time.”

“At the time?” She asked quizzically.

I immediately regretted those words.

“That came out wrong.”

Her pen started moving again. Much faster this time. I watched her write something. Probably:

Patient displays irrational guilt. Or maybe: Potential delusions.

Fair enough. I probably would have written the same thing. She looked up.

“John.” She called.

“Yeah?”

“How many people have died?”

I stared at the ceiling. Counted. Then counted again. Just to be safe.

“Twelve.”

The pen stopped. Again. Silence. Long silence. I raised a finger.

“To be fair, I didn’t know most of them.”

More silence. Finally, Dr. Reyes cleared her throat.

“Twelve people have died in the last four months.” She said slowly.

“Correct.”

“And you believe those deaths are connected to you.”

“Also correct.”

“Why?”

I looked her straight in the eye. Because if I was going to sound crazy, I might as well commit.

“Because every single one of them died after interacting with me.”

Dr. Reyes didn’t say anything. Didn’t react. Didn’t even blink. Professional. Very professional. Then she calmly wrote something else in her notebook. I was dying to know what. After a moment, she set the notebook down.

“Let’s start with the first person.”

I nodded.

“Okay.”

For the first time since I’d walked into her office, my stomach tightened. Because no matter how many times I replayed it in my head, I still couldn’t explain it. I took a breath.

“The first person was a customer.”

Dr. Reyes folded her hands in her lap.

“Tell me about the customer.”

I looked out the window. Thinking. Remembering. And just like that, I was back at Johnny’s.

Back before everything started. Back when my biggest concern had been inventory reports and whether Tank was going to eat another couch cushion.

Back before people started dying.

“The customer’s name was Mr. Henderson.”