The Button

As I heard the soft thump I frowned, put down the beer next to a few of its dented and drained kin, wiped the tears off my face and headed to the front door. There was a fat envelope on the mat, which must have only just fit through the letterbox. I immediately opened the door, stepped out and looked around, but saw not a soul. Who would have left this in the middle of the night?

The second glance around yielding the same result made me go back indoors resignedly. I picked up the envelope, which was surprisingly light, and walked back to the sofa. I turned it around. There was no name nor address on it, nothing at all. I opened it and felt inside. My fingers touched something hard and squarish. I pulled it out. In my hand was a tiny black plastic box with a note taped on it. I pulled off the note. Beneath it was a red button set squarely in the middle of the box, and I gasped. This could not be. I had dreamt about this box, both awake and asleep, more times that I could count. Could it be actually real? Was I holding what I thought I was? It could not be, yet . . .

I started reading the note. You know what this is. If you press this button, you will die. Do note, however, that—

Closing my eyes and exhaling deeply, I pushed the button.

Nothing happened.

I opened my eyes, angry, wanting to smash the damn box to pieces, wanting to smash myself to pieces. I resumed reading the damned note.

Do note, however, that if you actually press this button, this makes you an absolute idiot. What, did you think there could really be such a thing as a little box that would magically strike you dead by pushing a button? You might as well start believing in Cinderella, Santa Claus or Allah. If you want to die, you've got to do it yourself. You pussy.