July 30, 2008

Move along, Patrick.

Filed under: Belles lettres — theinkhorn @ 10:02 pm

I paced around the room calmly, half empty glass of club soda in hand, going in circles, counter clockwise, making sure each foot landed at least 2 inches away from the other one, heel first before the rest of the foot gently touched down onto the cold, hard marble.

I reached out for the scalpel, pressed the cold blade onto my cheek, and all i could think about was how to clean up the mess on my brand new off-white alpaca wool carpet. Not the poor kid tied up in the next room. Not the sound of him sniffing and weeping when i emotionlessly explain what was about to happen. Not the screams he would let out when i open up 2 three-inch long gaps on his face. Not the begging and grovelling when i make thousands of tiny cuts all over his weak, limp body and watch him slowly bleed to death. Not the sound of air hissing out of his lungs when i finally get sick of waiting and plunge my weapon into his chest and then drag it all the way down to his waistline. Not the sizzling of acid in a bathtub dissolving every last bit of tissue on his bones. All i could think about, was the fact that club soda wasn’t going to get the stains off.


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