The Choice

"Jeremy Singleton was executed only about an hour ago, yet the world still feels his impact. The
acts he has committed will never be forgotten; Virginia Clemens, specifically, can never forget about
the man who took away her daughter. Stay tuned for the exclusive interview, which will air after these
words from your local sponsors."
"Cheers," muttered Richard as he muted the volume on the television, raised and tipped his
glass toward the reporter, and swallowed the whiskey he had once again poured himself.
"Is this really a time for celebration?" asked a voice from the foyer; the man surprised Richard,
who promptly dropped his glass on the floor, though it did not shatter.
"Who the hell is there? Stay away! I'm... I'm armed," lied Richard, who was only armed with a
cell phone that, to his dismay, had no signal.
"Aramael."
"What?" inquired Richard, who had been slowly backing up and was now against the wall.
"You asked about my name; it's Aramael," he answered as he walked into the den and revealed
himself; he appeared to be an ordinary man in a button-down purple shirt and black jeans. He was a tan
fellow, roughly six-feet tall with short, reddish-blond hair.
"What kind of name is that?"
"Quite a holy name, I assure you."
"Do I know you?"
"You will," replied Aramael, who sat down on the rather small leather couch.

"How did you get in here? If you don't leave, right now, I'm going to call the police."
"Cut the bullshit. You have no signal; I made sure of that."
"Don't you know who I am?" asked Richard, proudly.
"I know you better than you know yourself."
"Why are you here--to steal from me, to kill me? Know that I'm a good man. Just look, look
what I've done!" he said loudly while pointing at the silent television.
"Yes, let's talk about that. Are you a good man?"
"Of course, I protect people; I protect them by taking thieves, rapists, murderers off the streets."
"All guilty, I presume?"
"Indeed. Our justice system makes sure of that."
"If man is fallible, how can his legal system be flawless?"
"So you're a criminal-philosopher. You break into my house and then spout nonsense."
"Criminal? The pot is calling the kettle black, wouldn't you agree," said Aramel, seemingly to
himself.
"If you're here for a reason, get to it. Let's get this over with," growled Richard, who was
trembling slightly.
"Calm yourself, and sit down. You can pour yourself another drink if you'd like. You know
what, I'll pour us both a glass."

"Thanks," mumbled Richard; he quickly swallowed the drink Aramael handed him. "So what
now?"
"A story. A prosecutor who has a history of losing cases wins the biggest case of his career:
Jeremy Singleton, a man who apparently raped and murdered nine children is about to get convicted.
However, the night before the verdict, this prosecutor accidentally uncovers that this man is innocent;
while he may have raped the girl who miraculously survived, that particular girl did not fit the pattern
of the other victims--she was half-black. Additionally, she survived. The prosecutor shrugs it off,
thinking that other than her escape and race, everything else meets the pattern. This man swallows his
doubt. Deep down he knows Singleton is innocent of the crimes for which he is being tried, but he
wants to win, regardless of the cost. Tonight, we know that cost." Aramael pointed at the news
broadcast and took another sip of his drink.
"How could you possibly know that?"
"Perhaps I am very bright. Maybe I'm a psychic. No, an alien. Let's go with alien," suggested
Aramael, smirking. "It doesn't matter how I know. The only thing that matters is that you let an
innocent man take the fall so you could reap the rewards. Have you ever considered the magnitude of
your mistake?"
"You said it yourself; he is still a rapist. There is no mistake."
"Yes, but the justice system you live by doesn't condemn rapists, not to death anyway."
"Well, it should."
"Whether or not it should is inconsequential; it doesn't. That as a terrible retort, and you call
yourself a lawyer. Pathetic."
"Your point is mute; it's too late; the man is dead. There's nothing more to say. I can't change the
past. What's done is done!"
"We'll see. Let's continue. So, onto your mistake: you have never even considered the

repercussions of your actions, have you?

What do you mean?
Five.
Five what?
Five is the sum of your grievous error. You see, Singleton wasn't the killer; that murderer
was never captured. In fact, he's still alive today, and he's killed five more children in the last eight
years."
"If you know all of this, then why haven't you stopped him. You could have done something."
"Those are not my dictations. I am here to offer you a choice: you can continue on with your
life as it is without any consequence. I won't attempt to harm you or misguide you in any way."
"Or?"
"Or I can take you back to the night before the trial, and you can do the right thing. I will reveal
to you the name and location of the murderer. The police will question him, and he will confess.
Jeremy will still go to jail for his crime, but he won't be put to death."
"What's the catch?"
"The catch is that you will have to admit that this man confronted you and confessed a few
weeks before the last murder, but you waited before turning him in, making you an accessory. You will
go to jail for eight years; I will make sure of that. Your good luck, fortune, and friends will all be gone.
You'll be labeled a monster for choosing your career over children's lives, but you will have done the
right thing, a just thing."
"How can you expect me to do such a thing? You can't ask me to do that."

"I just have. I will give you a moment to consider."

"The man says no," said another voice, from a shadow in the kitchen.
"Shut up, and wait your tunr. What is your answer?" demanded Aramael.
"I choose the first option. Just leave me alone," whispered Richard, almost weeping.
"That is unfortunate," murmured Aramael as another man stepped out from the shadows. This
man had a wide, almost unnatural grin and thin cheeks. His lips were chapped. He was very pale and
wore a button-down black shirt, blue jeans, and crocodile-skin boots.
"Have you been here the whole time?" asked Richard, exasperated.
"Yes."
"Why didn't you show yourself?"
"Aramael had to go first. Rules are rules." The man walked over to the bar, picked up the
whiskey, and drank straight from the bottle; he swallowed quite a bit, nearly the whole thing, put it
down, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"What does that mean?"
"Not very good at marketing, eh? Well, you see, he was trying to offer you an exchange, a bit of
a barter."
"For What?"
"Your soul."
"This is insane. Who the hell are you people, I mean, for real?"

"Oh, forgive me. Where are my manners? They call me Marazelene. That's Aramael, but you
already know that. As for who we are, that is a tad more difficult. Humanity has many names for our
kind. We're both the same, really. Just one difference. Aramael is a floater, and I'm a faller." Marazelene
walked over and sat down next to Aramael.
"What the hell are you talking about? You're crazier than he is," yelled Richard, directing it at
Marazelene.
"Come on, you must have realized what's going on by now."
"Whatever, I have made my choice. Both of you can leave!"
"It isn't that simple. You see, everyone who makes a mistake like the one you did gets a second
chance, an offer for redemption and, therefore, salvation. You'd be surprised how many don't get it. No
one ever figures it out. I never could understand how He could love you dim-witted apes. Although
Aramael often wins..."
"Sixty-eight percent of the time," interrupted Aramael, still drinking his whiskey.
"Although he often wins and those lucky little souls get to go through their purgatory, after
which it's upstairs they go, the other 32 percent aren't so lucky. No purgatory, no redemption, no
salvation. It's just a quick trip downstairs."
"You mean hell?"
"He catches on quick, doesn't he, jested Marazelene, cackling as he prodded his angelic friend
in the side. And it isn't actually downstairs or south or below us. That's just the easiest metaphor your
simple mind can comprehend. It's right here, he said pointing at the ground with both hands. The
only difference is, you won't have all that flesh, just your soul. Hell is simply an eternity devoid of
God's presence, devoid of his love. And that really has a lot of consequences. Hell is what you make of
it, I suppose. Well, not what you make of it, but meumm, not just meall the evil everythings
everywhere that ever were or ever will be that God deemed too impure for the attic get to stay in the
basement, with you."

"With both of you," corrected Aramael.

"Yes, they are all in the basement with us. And let me tell you, that basement has one hell of a
furnace."
"You're just going to stand there and let this happen, Richard asked Aramael.
"I offered you a choice, a chance. You turned it down," answered Aramael.
"You tricked me. You didn't tell me the stakes."

Oh, boo hoo, taunted Marazelene. Don't blame him for your own foolish arrogance. You
chose self-worth over the lives of children. Prominence over innocence. Besides, like I said before,
rules are rules."
"For what it's worth, I am sorry," said Aramael, softly.
"No, you're not," shouted Richard.
"You can doubt yourself, but never doubt me. I have been for nearly always. Marazalene and I
have been at this a long, long time, and I have never enjoyed losing a soul.
Nothing is worse than that," said Aramael, sternly.
"He may not enjoy this, but I absolutely love it. Every. Single. Second, though I must admit I
loathe the company. This guy," he nodded his head toward Aramael, "is a damned party pooper; I never
get to really savor my victories. Still, I get by."
"Well, why didn't you talk to me first; I would have made a different choice," pleaded Richard,
hoping to get out this situation.

"We take turns you know. If the soul is close to damnation, he gets a go; if close to salvation, I
get to whisper the sweet nothings in their ears."
"That doesn't seem fair; why don't you both negotiate and bargain with people like me,"
inquired Richard.
"You don't get it. Our presence alone influences the person. If near damnation, I don't even need
to say anything. The soul just comes to me freely, and the opposite is also true. We are magnets for the
goodness and malevolence in people. So, there you have it. That's enough chit chat. Time to go. Let's
meet the maker."
"I get to meet God," hoped Richard.
"Not that maker, you fool. The maker of your hell-the one in charge of your eternal torment.
Think of it like this: up there," he said, pointing upward and continued, "everyone chooses their own
paradise. You aren't as lucky in perdition. We choose it for you. We give you a little psych test,
determine your worst fears, find out your most intense pains, both physically and emotionally, and
voila an amusement park of torture!" Marazalene stood up and rushed toward Richard. He lifted him
up in the air with a some hand gestures and an incantation. Richard began to scream as Marazelene
started twirling him in circles, quickly and violently. A black vortex appeared in the adjacent wall.
Then, quite abruptly, Marazalene shoved Richard through the hole. Once the hole swallowed Richard,
it closed, and all was quiet.
"You're an asshole, you know that?" jabbed Aramael.
"Don't be a sore loser. You're better than that," suggested Marazelene.
"I suppose you're right. It's unbecoming."
Better luck next time. Marazalene smiled, snapped his fingers, and vanished.
"I really hate when he wins. Won't hear the end of it now," whispered Aramael. He finally
finished his drink, snapped his fingers, and vanished too. The room was now empty and dark, except

for the muted television that was still broadcasting stories about how Jeremy Singleton, a criminal,
finally faced justice.