Eye of the Beholder

I look down at my hand and notice the sting that broke into my reverie was my new toy breaking into my palm.  The cut is shallow and beautifully linear – pain is replaced by fascination.  Seeing blood in more than just my own imagination is delectable.  As if to prove this to myself, I raise my hand to my mouth and lick it like a cat would cream.

I’m glad I’m alone.  I would never do anything like this in public.  If someone who didn’t know me was watching right now, they would probably have me committed.  Truth be told, if witnessing this same scene, I would probably think the person a little psychotic. However, since I know what’s going on, what events led to this, I know I am far from crazy.  Logic alone is the driving force behind what I’m about to do.  Besides, when strangers look at me, the Drishti is always involved.

For instance, last week when I was in Sav-more, this wrinkled, old woman who looked remarkably like a penguin – waddle and all – was watching me buy panties. She kept looking me up and down, probably wishing she was young and fit, like me.  Why else would a nonagenarian eye a sixteen-year-old girl?

I should have had the guts to do something about it then, instead of ducking my head and walking away.  When my car wouldn’t start the next morning, making me miss the test in my first period class, I knew why.  I would love to have hurt the old biddy for that.

I would have shoved her into the rack of lacy Hanes and slammed my bony knee into that basketball gut.  When she doubled over, I would’ve pressed my blade cleanly into her side, watching the stain of crimson merge with the floral print of her house dress.  I’d have stabbed her again on the other side, my knife catching on the elastic of her granny panties, probably saturated with urine by that point.

She wouldn’t have screamed the way I picture Stacy shrieking.  She’d just have blathered incoherently, clutching her hip with clumsy, red fingers.  I wouldn’t have been raging either.  Instead, I’d have been passionless, all calm intent.  This wouldn’t have been about venting my anger, but about making an example of her, showing others I won’t just sit back and let them hurt me.  I’d have left superficial slashes in all the best places, a couple on her arms, one on each breast and three along the length of her jaw.  As an afterthought, I’d have thrust my hand between her legs and slid it flush along the slit of her vagina to cut both thighs at once.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)