Triplicate

by Momar Van Der Camp

Triple the weight. Triple the score. He opened the vein. The blood rained down. In triple.

Make everything in triplicate. Every day he heard the same thing. Copy and paste. Triplicate. Copy and paste. Triplicate. Copy and paste. Triplicate. But what happens when you triplicate and triplicate and triplicate to the point where you've made nine of the same thing? Does your life then cease to matter?

Add more weight. Tally it up. Step to the edge.

He walked into the office that morning with the same notion in his mind. Triplicate. Triplicate. Triplicate. He was a god to those papers. He could create. He could destroy. He would destroy. He would destroy something. For the last 10 years, triplicate triplicate triplicate. He'd had enough.

Tie the weight to your ankles. Take a deep breath. One more step and it's over.

To the roof. He made it to the stairwell with no one noticing the heavy blocks he carried with him. The thick rope. The black sheath on the cold stainless steel blade. His clothes not even pressed for the day. Everyone he stepped by made the same motion: triplicate, triplicate, triplicate. Copy paste triplicate.

Another world, another dimension, at the same moment someone else was doing the same thing. Cutting the vein. Making their way to the edge. Changing the world.

He would wake someone up.

He took one more step as it dripped dripped dripped down his arm. Across space, another young man took the same step. And he fell. And in another world, in another dimension, he fell.

His life would end that day. And so would his. And his.