A dice is a six-armed pivot to parallels, the final touch before splitting the world in hexagons: six faces of potential futures, six sides of mysterious. A dice is a mobile Schrödinger’s cat. Some say our future is pre-written, pre-destined. Some do not. Those who carry a dice in their pocket, those like me, surely believe strongly, one way or another. One is a person with beliefs of fate, the other may be considered irresponsible.
I have carried a dice to deal with conundrums for as long as I can remember. It resides in my pocket as a reminder that there is always more than one outcome for everything. I am also the worst person at making decisions; I weigh every possible outcome until the nexus of infinites crumples under its own mass and I turn blank as a fresh page. Do I want a cup of tea? I like tea, but do I want the diuretic effects? Is it too late for caffeine? Will I offend the person by not taking up their offer, or are they asking out of politeness, hoping I will decline? Are they asking to create a shared tea-space in which to speak? Do I have the time to stay? You can see my issue, so as you can imagine, this conundrum with Andrew and His gun was a sure call for crumpled infinites.
At first sight, there are two potential outcomes:
- I do not tell Him the hiding place and He will not have the gun, but should I believe Him when He said he needed it to keep me safe. We are in danger, He said. I wondered what He meant. The thought left me white vulnerable and taut in the core. Is it a risk I can afford to take?
- I tell Him the location of the gun, and let Him arm Himself with others potential demise, for our shared safety—but then Ruby Red might be correct. How well do I know Andrew? He is dangerous, He is fire, she said. He has already proved He cannot control His own actions, that could go very badly with a trigger in His finger.
There is no way to know. What is required is a third door, a third exit. An escape route: a window. Perhaps I only offer the gun if He gives me His word that it remains in my possession, but this door resides in a quagmire of its own:
- How good is His word? I have yet to test it. He has proven the brute strength to wrestle it out of my hands the moment I grasp it from its hiding place.
- I have no experience using a gun. It is completely out of my character to carry one. If it came to a situation requiring it, I may get us both killed.
- I would be breaking the law. I do not have a gun permit. If I were found with it, I do not know what would happen.
What am I saying? How did things come to this? The stereotype introvert, the chrysalis of a girl who at one time was afraid to be a butterfly, afraid to ask Andrew to open His office window, talking about carrying a gun. So much has changed, or He has changed me—for better or for worse. All I am certain of, is I will never be a chrysalis again. That chapter has been scrubbed into the backwaters, permanently, I fear. I am the dark side of the butterfly; I am the moth.
I cannot leave the gun in the cistern. Someone will find it one day, and on that day, I do not wish to be responsible for their actions. I see only one outcome: I threw the dice.