250 pounds of uncontrollable rage are barreling down the hallway.

“I’m gonna get you, you bitch!”

She has hidden behind some boxes, shivering in her white silky nightgown, in shock that this could be happening to her. She is unaware of the precarious setting of some cleaning supplies perched at the edge of one of the boxes.

This is where I come in.

My intentions are never malicious. Nor are they intended to be helpful. They just are.

Whether it’s flipping a coin, or flipping the winning card in a poker hand, I am there.

Leaving just a bit too early to work and dying in a car accident? Yeah, that’s me.

Leaving at just the right time, and missing a bridge collapsing by seconds? Also me.

I have no intent one way or the other, I just do what I do. But there are rules, see. And I always follow them to a T.

I’m intrigued by the shivering woman, her heart hammering so hard that I can see it in her chest. I know the man is about to rush right past her, not having seen where she went. I know he intends to wrap his fingers around her throat and strangle the life right out of her. To him, she’s just some girl, some bitch he picked out of hundreds of potential women. Someone for him to take his aggression out on and get off in his own sick twisted way. Lucky her, right?

She’s hopeful now. The briefest glimmer of it flashing in her eyes as he bolts right past her. Now she can run the other way.

And that is when I do it. I knock the metal canister of sanitizing spray on the ground and it bangs on the linoleum with an ear splitting ring. That’s when the man stops and turns around.

I’m not malicious. I’m not kind.

I’m luck. And in the case of luck, for someone to win, someone else has to lose. That’s the rules.

It’s chance. Just her rotten luck.