The cold end of the small, metal barrel presses against my temple. A strong hand wraps around my pale neck; an arm firmly held against my sternum, attached to the shoulder of the man behind me, pins me to my knees. My heart beats like the hooves of wild horses storming across the Oklahoma plain. My stomach has leapt to my throat, shrinking my airway until I can hardly breathe. Blood rushes through my ears; or is that really the waves of an angry ocean beating against the rocky shore? And what, you ask, is to blame for my situation? In a word, Articon. But I suppose that means little to you, so let me explain.
Mr. Burn created Articon twelve years ago, a time in The Country before there were cures that meant to kill cancer cells or pills intended to change one’s eye, hair, or skin color. More importantly, it was a time before many people knew something as powerful as Articon could even exist. Mr. Burn, however, believed in a medicine that would stop the aging process and keep him forever physically unchanged. He searched for this, his genius mind inventing formula after formula for the drug. One night twenty-two years ago, he found it. But not without a price.
Mr. Burn spilt a portion of the heated liquid Articon on his left arm, and it relentlessly consumed his three layers of skin. Even his own medical expertise could not fully heal his burn. As Articon’s popularity grew, citizens of The Country begged to know its inventor’s identity. Still he remained anonymous, showing only the burn on his forearm and calling himself Mr. Burn.
“I don’t want to do this, Soal. You know I don’t,” the man behind me whispers, his voice unnaturally harsh.
I look to a shelf where a solid silver trophy stands six inches above my reach. I merely glance at the words “Scientist of the Year” and remember the man’s father received this before he passed away years ago.

Thrusting my right hand up in a flash, I clutch the man’s gun hand and force it upward. He pulls the trigger. The bullet barely misses my head. I grab the trophy and pull it down with all my strength. It lands behind me, slamming into the back of my attacker’s neck. For the few seconds he stays dazed, I am at the advantage. The gun is mine now, and I stand four feet from him.
“What, do you really think you can shoot me?” He challenges. “Isn’t that against your Christian code? Or are you a killer now?”
I press my lips together, silent and cold. I have always been able to do what I have to: when Mother got cancer and Dad left her and me alone, I took a load of responsibility no thirteen-year-old should ever have to bare. But I never felt sorry for myself. Never complained. Never cried. I just did what was necessary to support Mother and myself. When I was fifteen, Mother passed on and I was thrown from foster home to foster home. Beaten. Abused. Never once loved or cared for. Pregnant the next year, lost my baby girl three months after that. Still, I made it through.
“You know how I’ve always been,” I aim steadily for the man’s forehead.

“I know how tough you were before I met you two years ago,” he points out. “You’ve changed, Soal.” He is right. When I found God at sixteen, just after my miscarriage, my heart felt real joy for the first time.
“I became happy.” I admit, staring into his cold violet eyes, the ones that cost him more paper than I had ever seen. Even from the start, money came easily for this man. His multi-millionaire father raised him in luxury and left a great inheritance for this only child. “I fell in love with God. I fell in love with you, Blade.”
I think back to the first time I saw this man. His soft white hair stood out from across the crowded street. Unnatural means had enhanced its color, but such was common for the wealthy in The Country. Vendors displayed scarves of vibrant tones, orange as a flame and blue as the spring sky. Men holding stuffed animals called out for me to play their games, but I paid them no mind.
Blade looked my way and gave a heart-winning smile that made me blush. “Hey!” He called, stepping down from his place atop a set of bleachers and weaving through the mush of people to get to me. Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as I took a deep breath. I had never seen this man before. Surely, there’s no way he was talking to me, I thought. However, I was wrong.
I jumped when he grabbed my shoulders from behind. “Hey,” he said, turning me toward him, “I know you.”

“No, you don’t,” I corrected. “I would have remembered you.” This guy had the build of a movie star. His snow-colored bangs covered his forehead and swept to the right just above his stunningly beautiful dark purple eyes. His defined jaw line showed strength, but his gentle smile showed kindness.
“I remember you. Your cute black hair, gorgeous Asian eyes. Man, you’ve gotten so pretty. You don’t remember me? Third grade? Mrs. Kempton’s class?” I raised an eyebrow and shook my head. The name Kempton had no place in my memory. “Are you serious? I guess it must have been someone else then. Uh, I’m sorry if I bothered you.” His lips formed a sheepish smile in apology.

“Sorry to disappoint you.” I laughed. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Blade. And you are?”
“Soal.”
“Well then, Miss Soal, what do you say you don’t disappoint me again and let me take you to this great ice-cream booth my friend owns?”
I accepted his offer. We spent the rest of the day together, discovered we lived in opposite parts of Heartford City, and started dating a month later. For two carefree years, Blade was a dream come true.
Now that dream is a nightmare. “I still love you, Blade.” I tell him from the depths of my heart. Everything inside me aches. I know what I have to do, but my soul cries for me not to do it. I have Articon to thank for this separation of body and mind, heart and head.
Seven months ago, Articon made its way to the shelves of every pharmacy in The Country. Those who could afford a bottle of its small white pills hustled to the drugstore to purchase them. Even the poor did anything in their power to obtain the antidote for aging. With Articon, humans would be able to live forever. Never grow old. Who would refuse this cure? Me.
After getting to know my Creator, I realized that He had not made mankind to be immortal. Articon provided a way for us to stray from our purpose. I knew the more man chose his way over the truth, the more problems he would create. I just wish I hadn’t been this right.
“I can’t live with this.” I c*** the pistol. This is for the millions who took Articon for twenty years before discovering that it was silently killing them from the inside. I take a moment to remember the images of mass graves and hospitals crammed with Articon victims. Officials have recalled the drug and issued a warrant for Mr. Burn’s arrest for creating the murderous Articon. But now it’s up to me to make the real difference.
“Please, Soal. You know I love you. I really do. I thought you loved me too,” Blade pleads. “Don’t do this.”
My gaze falls to the uncovered skin on his left arm. I ripped his jacket’s sleeve off earlier in our fight. A deep, gruesome burn has deformed the skin of his forearm. My throat closes up, squeezing my voice to unusual heights. “Just let it go.”
“You know I can’t do that. Articon is my income, my life. I have to keep selling it.” What he doesn’t add is that he will make future sales via the black market since Articon is now illegal in all cities of The Country.
“It’s killing people, Blade.”
His eyes, as marvelous as the purple sky behind the summer sunset, burn with intensity. “I can’t, Soal.”
A tear flows from the crack in my heart and rises to my eye. “I love you.”
Though already seated on the ground, Blade crumbles when my bullets hit his shoulder. His leg. His arm. He cries out in cursing as I rush to call officials.
Four days later, I sit inside a gray, lifeless cell. My mind cannot fathom why authorities would punish me for “aiding and abating a criminal” after I turned Blade in. That does not matter, though. What matters is what I know now: I was wrong when I thought Blade was the only burn victim.
After losing the only man who loved me, I realize nothing in life could scar me more. Heartache severs through my chest; a flame consumes my heart and lungs until they scream for relief from the heat of the pain. But when my eyes water from the sting, I tell myself it was worth it. So many of those who blindly took Blade’s concoction for eternal youth now lie beneath the surface of the earth. Had I not done what I did, thousands more might be forever sleeping beside them.
I once blamed Articon for forcing me into this. Now I realize Articon is nothing more than a lifeless, mindless medicine; it did nothing to capture Blade’s love. It was just a tool, a weapon, and a drug. The only thing guilty of blinding my boyfriend was his own lust for wealth. That enticed him to the point of addiction. He could not let it go; he held no power against it. I had to help him. I had to turn him in. I had to move beyond my own selfish desires and let my profound love for him burn to ashes.
Looking back over the past two years, I realize Blade had become more than just a companion to me. He had become part of me. With him gone now, a piece of me has melted. Therefore, I burn too.