Bad Luck in Berlin: An Exclusive Short Story

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‘I’m not going to die.’

The speaker was somewhere in her early fifties, a little overweight, and well dressed in a navy business suit. Her short hair was dyed a fiery red. She wore stylish glasses that had a designer’s logo embossed in gold leaf on the arms. She sat in a confessional pose, head angled down, eyes open but fixed on the closed hands in her lap. Her face was flushed with blood from a racing heart. She spoke the words quietly, barely more than a whisper, but just audible enough for Victor to register. They had a ritualistic monotone, almost trancelike, else the words themselves were designed to induce such a trance and block out the terror of impending death.

‘I’m not going to die.’

Victor wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear or not, but he couldn’t help himself. He was intrigued by the woman. She broke the norm. When faced with what they believed to be their final moments people begged and pleaded and screamed defiance and threatened vengeance from beyond the grave. He had never encountered anyone who simply refused to accept it was about to happen.

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