D20

By Abbie Wong

Warning: the following content contains mention of amputation and blood.

A man and a woman stepped into a metal room. Before them were two chairs, a table, and a die with 20 sides. “I haven’t seen you before. First time?” The woman asked, looking down at the floor. “Yeah.” The man mumbled. His fingers were rapidly bouncing off and on his slender leg. Both approached the ends of the table, the man taking a bit longer, and sat down.

“Let’s roll,” The woman said. “We can’t just sit here all day and not do our job.” She grabbed the die let and let it fall from her hand, which tumbled across the table for a couple of seconds. The die read “Anoushka.” On the screens, a blonde sickly woman began crying. She looked up to the camera recording her, forcing a smile and mouthing “thank you.” Behind her, a plate of chicken tikka masala was delivered.

The woman scoffed and crossed her arms. “She thanks me, but I had no intention of feeding her. Filthy scum.” The man widens his eyes at her. “Scum? You don’t even know the crimes they’ve committed to end up here, or if they’ve even committed a crime.” The other slammed her hands against the table. “Why take up a job such as this if you’re going to question the authority?” She yelled, her voice echoing around the sound-proof room. The man’s arms wrapped around himself, looking away from the woman that just scolded him.

“Hey, if these people aren’t eating then how do they live?” The young man asked, pointing at the cameras. Surrounding Anoushka were eight other people, four of which had twigs for bones. The woman looked up from her lap and at the naive man in front of her. “They don’t. That’s the intention that the people created this system had.” She then opened a cabinet underneath the table, and pulled out a cleaver sharp enough to slice any fruit thrown at it. “That is where this comes in. I’m sure even a fool like you heard about this before working here.” The man scooted backwards in his chair. “I did, but I’m sure as hell not cutting off all my fingers to save them!” He yelled, raising his hands in defense. “Then there’s no use complaining about how they’re being treated if you’re not gonna do anything about it, is there?” The woman taunted. The man opened his mouth to speak, but closed it to sulk. “Yeah…”

He reached to pick up the die, clasping his index finger and thumb around it and releasing it into the dish. He looked over to see a “Jeremy” would be fed thanks to his hand. The man turned to the screens and saw a bony man sobbing next to a plate of spaghetti. “Our job is done here,” The woman declared, standing up from her seat. “I will see you tomorrow.” The man’s eyes widened once again. “Ah-already?” He covered his mouth, in fear that the rising of his voice would agitate the woman. “This is an experiment, low-effort high-reward work.” She said, opening the door out of the room.

In fear of being left alone again, he ran out the room with her.

The same routine played out for two weeks: Sit down, roll the die, and leave with a small sum of money. The names the man rolled never left his mind. Diane, Yukio, Mingli, Bradley, Coleen, Victor, Priyanka, Emmett, and most importantly Jeremy. Seeing Yukio’s name three days in a row pained him. Sure, this man could now eat for three days, something that shouldn’t even be a privilege, but there were nineteen other people who could’ve had this plate of beef stroganoff, some of which needed it more than him.

Today was the fifteenth. Who would the man be feeding today? Who would his esteemed colleague be feeding? He already had the answer to the second question; a man named Kevin whose bones would probably break pushing him off a bed. What about the first question? He was about to find out, gripping the die in his fist. The man looked down at his hand, but instead of releasing his fist onto the table, something clicked in him. He realised that being able to save someone who he barely knew was something to strive for. Processing this thought, his hand set the die on the table, and quickly reached the drawer’s handle, yanking it open and snatching the cleaver inside.

Without thought, he slammed it down on his left hand. The impact was strong enough to sever all his left fingers except for his thumb. The man didn’t know what to expect, but he should’ve expected pain. A lot of it. The man writhed and yelled in agony, clasping onto his bleeding hand as if it were the hand of someone keeping him from falling. He glanced at the screens, and saw four cell doors opening. His gaze then averted to the woman in front of him. “I saved those four, didn’t I?” He cried in between the screams. “Didn’t I?” The woman, bewildered, remained silent for what felt like forever. The man broke the silence by severing his left thumb. During which the woman saw a fifth cell door open over the cries and wheezes. “And another one gone. Fifteen left.” He panted, slamming his fist into the table. “So are you gonna help me out here or bleed out with me?”