Did you know that it’s really hard to suppress a blinking reflex? No, you probably didn’t. That’s not a particular fault of yours. The blame on that one lies on me. Not for you not knowing, but for you no longer existing. It puzzles me to know that this letter will reach you in some way in some form of existence, but I’ve been told you’d appreciate the explanation. Personally, I’d prefer not to ever know about the banality of my death, but I might be biased by existence.
My blinks change things. Everybody’s blinks change things. Mostly, they water your eyes so they don’t dry out and you go blind. In my case, the effect goes beyond my field of vision. Not only that, it’s not anywhere near my field of vision. The changes happen after I die. When you read this, yes, I’ll be dead. And so will you. I wonder who’ll be better off.
When I blink, I undo an existence. Every eye blink, someone in the future will die an unnatural death. I’m not sure if undo is the right word, but that’s how I have been taught. There are few things you can believe with absoluteness. But I was shown. In more than one way. I know. Unfortunately.
I blink about five times a minute. You do the math on that. It’s not a pleasant way to exist. But with all the consequences outside my own lifetime – let me tell you now: It’s not enough. It’s simply not enough to convince you to kill yourself. As much as you love your fellow citizens, it’s not enough. I don’t know you. I will never know you. Which is why I lived my whole life. And that’s why you never got to live yours to the end. Should I apologize? What would that change? I’d undo someone else as I would even write down my apology to you.
I’d been told the deaths would start once I’m dead. Maybe if I had kids, it would have changed something. But I didn’t. I passed away. Childless. In one of the nameless rundown inns scattered around the docks of Sicily. In 1347 AD. A day later, the worst plague in Europe’s history would break out. And I finally found out how many times I blinked.