Optatio (op-ta’-ti-o): Expressing a wish, often ardently.
“I wish you were dead,” that’s what I said to my mom when she grounded me. She started to cough and choke, and fell on the floor, and died. The autopsy said she died of natural causes, but I knew differently. I had killed her by wishing her dead. I felt pretty bad. She was a good mom and I was a bad son. I had tormented her with my antics since I was 12. When she died from grounding me, I had glued my sister’s closet door shut. I thought it was pretty funny hearing her banging on the closet door and screaming “goddamn you Johnny!”
I laughed at her, but then I realized that getting the door opened would require installing a new door. That’s why my mother had grounded me for one month, but she didn’t deserve to die for it. Before I decided what to do next, I needed to do some experimenting with my killing power, to see if it was for real. Also, I needed to wish for things to test scope of my power. Sitting in my bedroom I wished for $100, an Armani suit, and a new bowling ball. Nothing.
So, I went outside and saw a squirrel on the ground, digging around under an oak tree. I yelled at the squirrel “I wish you were dead.” His bushy tail went limp and he flopped over on his side, dead. I thought briefly that I could become a professional hunter, knocking off caribou and Elk and White Tail dear. Then I thought “What would be the business model?” As a guide, my talent would not come into play. Hunters would want to kzill animals themselves, not have me yell them dead.
Then, as I became desperate to use my “gift” my moral horizon began to shrink, and melt into oblivion. I knew I had arrived at the bottom when the idea of killing people popped into my head. At that point I didn’t let myself slide completely to the bottom. Instead, I offered my services to people who had a terminally ill loved one, couldn’t stand their suffering and/or were nearly broke from the medical bills. I would whisper in the client’s ear “I wish you were dead” and that was it. The death couldn’t be attributed to me; it was the illness, or natural causes. Marketing my service was done by word of mouth.
Although I made a good living as a euthanizer, there was a practice I could engage in that was far more lucrative: hit man. I reached my moral nadir and got “made” after a couple of trial assignments with the mob. By the time I retired, I had 210 hits to my credit. You would think I would have a guilty conscience, but I don’t. Everybody I whacked deserved it. I would make sure of that before I wished them dead. But, as the years have piled up, and I’ve retired, I’m losing my discretion and restraint. Last week I killed a Yorkshire Terrier that was yapping at me. It was a stupid move. So, next week I’m going to stand in front of my bathroom mirror and say “I wish you were dead.”
POSTSCRIPT
Johnny stepped in front of the mirror just as the cleaning lady entered the bathroom and was reflected in the mirror alongside him just as he said “I wish you were dead.” She dropped to the floor, dead. Nothing happened to him. He was infuriated.
He went to Mexico and had a laryngectomy that took away his capacity to speak. He learned sign language, and to his relief, his death wish only worked with the spoken word.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
The Daily Trope is available on Amazon in paperback under the title of The Book of Tropes for $9.95. It is also available in Kindle format for $5.99.
The Daily Trope 