I realize it now – hiding rat poison in the corn-flakes was a bad idea: both kids dead, husband gurgling and dribbling face-down in the butter. It’s annoying. I may have to stop writing until he shuts up. Or I could just go to the attic again.
That’s better. I can hear myself think up here.
I’m imagining what the neighbors will say, “Stupid Mary!” “Psycho Mary has done it again, just like when she kicked the dog to death.” That’s what they’ll be saying, chattering away behind my back. They’re a sick bunch of hypocritical cock-chompers.
. . . I think that was the sound of my husband falling to the floor. Maybe that was the last spasm in his nervous system. Stiffs do that about a minute from the end. I like to think that in nature that convulsion would be a call to carrion eaters.
If only the dogs were still alive, perhaps they’d eat him.
That’s an idea! Maybe I’ll defrost Benji’s head and use it to chew their faces off. A bit of fun – before forensics get here.
Forensics! That’s another bunch of cock-chompers. I don’t get their being titillated by corpses. And being so intrusive with it!
I don’t know where any of this is going. Who does know what life is about? But I do know we’re all going to die.
I know I died. One day my insides just disappeared to leave me in this 3D showreel. I’d like to say it’s fun, but it’s not. I’m just waiting for an end. Any kind of end.
I could suicide, I know that. But it doesn’t seem right. Besides, I doubt it’s as interesting as killing others. You can’t beat that power of transformation, turning someone’s intricately constructed life to nothing – looking into those eyes to see that moment when everything is given up.
I kind of envy that, staring into those blunted, empty orbs – must be pleasurable being that empty. It must remove the complications of life, leaving a nice, clean, present moment – a pristine here and now.
That’s given me an idea! Why not hammer ball-bearings into my husband’s skull? Bang large shiny balls into his eye sockets and give him the glazed, vacant look he deserves for ruining my life.
. . . Shit! That’s him calling now. And one of the kids is up already. I suppose I better get breakfast on the table.
Soren James is a writer and visual artist who recreates himself on a daily basis from the materials at his disposal, continuing to do so in an upbeat manner until one day he will sumptuously throw his drained materials aside and resume stillness without asking why. More of his work can be seen here: https://sorenjames.wordpress.com