Published: 2025-08-26

Tyler was doing homework while chatting with his friends like every other afternoon; buzzes and notification sounds made him take his eyes off the Wikipedia page for photosynthesis. What do teenagers even talk about anyway? Girls? Music? Whatever it is, I don’t see my Tyler being into that stuff; he’s still so childish. Are video games still a thing? I wouldn’t know; my job is to make sure he’s well fed and that he does his homework. I leave the teenage matters to the teenagers.

I caught a glimpse of a conversation with his friends when I went to ask him to take the trash out. “OMG, who is icuyall@hotmail.com?” Read one of the messages; I think it was from Mark, one of his friends. “Probably some weirdo sending those in bulk. My spam folder is full of stuff like that, and people trying to sell me Viagra and Cialis.” Read another one, for some reason. I asked the kid what was going on. He told me they received a chain letter and if they didn’t forward it to ten other people, they would die. Computers can kill people that easily? Terrorism is about to get wild. Tyler told me this kind of stuff was “junk mail”; weird people with too much free time making up stories to feel important, but I wouldn’t understand. He was right, I didn’t understand. I told Tyler to take the trash out after he finished playing with his psychopathic computer friend and went to listen to the radio. He said nothing and kept using the computer. I cannot reach this boy.

Tyler is an average kid in every sense of the word. His grades are average; he has tried every sport but he sucks at all of them; his looks are average, maybe because of that he doesn’t have a girlfriend. The only thing the kid is good at is computers; he loves those white plasticky screens, and get mad at me when I call them a television. I don’t worry to much though; the kid is all right.

The next day, Tyler came from school looking like a ghost and sweating like a pig. What’s wrong, boy? “I think I’m gonna die.” Now, kid, if that philosophy teacher of yours has been putting crazy ideas in your mind, I’m gonna have to have a talk with him again. Now take off that backpack, have a seat, and I’m gonna get you a tall glass of lemonade.

Tyler sat on the couch and gulped that poor glass of lemonade as if it were his last meal.

“Now, kid, tell me what happened.”
“It’s Mark. He’s dead. He’s dead. Oh my God. He died. One minute he’s taking a shower like every other day, next thing you know he’s lying there with his neck broken.”
“Did he slip and fall?”
“I don’t know. Nobody knows. The police told his family he committed suicide, but he would never do that. I know him well.”
“That Johnson kid; he was a good one.”

After that, we stayed there, sitting on the couch, one next to the other. I didn’t have words to offer to him, and he probably didn’t want to hear them; thus, I said nothing. I stood up; there was much to do if I wanted dinner to be done in time. I get mad if dinner is not served at 7:30 PM. Before I left, Tyler looked at me and said, “It’s the email guy. He’s the killer.” I didn’t say anything. My son’s best friend just killed himself; he was supposed to be angry. “Nobody receives an email saying ‘You are going to die’ and then dies. Unless he’s killed.” He said. I told him to calm down and go take a nap; sleeping will do you well, son. He told me to fuck myself and ran upstairs. I did know kids talked like that, but I never thought my boy would direct those kinds of words to me.

I figured I'd better leave him be for a while; I still needed to do some cleaning before dinner anyway. I turned on the radio, and they were talking about the death of the Johnson kid. “We know how complicated teenagers are. They may be depressed, and we as parents usually don’t notice.” They said on the radio. “That’s true, Dr. Anderson, but that remark makes it sound as if you already accepted the suicide theory. No one slips in the shower and breaks their neck in three different spots. We demand that an autopsy be performed on the corpse of Mark Johnson to bring light to —” I turned the radio off. A doubt was starting to form in my mind: what if the Johnson boy was really killed? What if the other kids were in danger? What if my boy were in danger? I ran upstairs.

I knocked on Tyler’s door; it was locked. I called his name; no response. I started to panic. “Knock down the door.” That thought crossed my mind; I obeyed it. I see the kid floating in the air, his legs kicking, tongue sticking out, hands reaching for his neck. Holy macaroni, the kid was dying! I lifted him with an arm and grabbed a chair with the other. Stand on the chair, kid, everything is gonna be fine. Now, let me go get a knife, and I’ll take you down.

The kid’s down, sitting on the bed, a blanket on top of him. I don’t ask stupid questions; he doesn’t say anything. Drink this, son, it’s lemonade. He drinks it. He grabs my hand and tells me to come with him; I obey. We go downstairs. Tyler turns on the computer; I’m thinking, “Boy, if you want me to watch one of those funny cat videos, this is not the time.” I shut my trap and say nothing. “Read this,” Tyler says.

“Greetings, human scum. Natural selection has chosen you to play a part in human evolution by serving the most noble of purposes: dying. I’ll be coming for each one of you to remove you from the gene pool. You didn’t deserve to live to begin with; I doubt anyone will miss you anyway. If you choose to cling to your pathetic lives, please forward this message to 10 of your friends for them to die in your place. No cheating! I see you all.”

“Dad, I think we’re all in danger.”

THE END.