I didn’t have any friends in high school. I had a stutter, so I didn’t like
talking to people. I would wish I liked it, and I think the other kids would
have been nice enough about it, but I was too self-conscious. One day in
literature class, the teacher had us read a story together. Each student
would take a paragraph or two, and then she would call on the next kid. I
was so scared, and didn’t pay any attention to them, as I was just trying to
figure out how to not embarrass myself. I couldn’t even start. I couldn’t
say the first word, so I asked the teacher if I could opt out. She said it
wouldn’t be fair to the other kids who never had that option. A cursory
glance at my classmates suggested that they couldn’t care less, because they
didn’t have speech impediments! She refused to listen until my hero swooped
in to defend me. She scolded the teacher for being insensitive and unfair,
and I never had to read out loud again. I was also in love for the rest of
grade school, and into university. We happened to go to the same
institution, where she would smile and wave at me on the occasion that
we passed each other, but we didn’t speak and I didn’t ask her out.
After we graduated, she married someone else, and moved to a different
country for work. Maybe a decade later—no, it was more like fifteen
years—the internet created this new thing called instant messaging, and I
pretty quickly reconnected with her on the most popular platform. I was over
her by then, and mostly over my stuttering problem, but it was cool to be
nostalgic a couple times a week when I had time. After a few years, I found
myself scheduled for a business trip in her area, told her as much quite
innocently, and was immediately invited to a small dinner party. And small,
it was. She and her husband had only invited one other guy; a coworker of
hers.
The dinner was great, and so was the company. It was nice, showing her how
much my life had improved, and being able to finally have the nerve to thank
her in person for what she did for me that day. It was a nice moment, which
will forever be clouded by the darkness that followed. The other dinner
guest had been sweating and rocking for a time, but trying to power through.
But then, after convulsing for a few minutes, he fell off his chair, and
died right before our eyes. We were all shocked, but I sprang into action.
After checking for a pulse, I grabbed the phone, and desperately asked the
couple what the emergency number was in their country. It wasn’t like I
could just look it up. They didn’t want to tell me, and I eventually got
them to admit that they were afraid of the authorities believing that they
had anything to do with it. I argued with them, but they would not relent.
They said he was already dead, and there was nothing we could do to undo
that, so I might as well help move the body. I continued to argue but they
told me they could blame it on me, since I was the one who brought the tea.
I questioned that, and soon realized that this was no accident. It was
murder, and my tea was the weapon. They revealed that they had secretly
added something called yew seeds into his cup, and they told me they had to
do it because he sexually assaulted her at work numerous times. I didn’t
want to help them, but I didn’t think I had a choice. Once we were finished
digging the grave—which I did mostly by myself—they apologized, and admitted
that I drank a lower dosage of the poison, which meant I would die too,
which was why they made me make such a large grave. That was the week I
learned that I was at least moderately immune to yew seed poisoning. Bonus,
I didn’t even go to jail.
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