Eye of the Beholder

I’m definitely aroused now.  There’s something exciting, empowering about envisioning myself taking back the power over my own fortune.  In India, the power of the Drishti is respected.  Many people wear a nazar, a protective amulet or charm.  As I twirl the razorblade between my fingers like a miniature baton, I decide that this is my nazar.  For today.

Tomorrow I’ll buy a new pocket knife.  I’m sure my sister stole the one Father gave me the first time he took me fishing.  Anna is always taking my stuff; she always wants what I have.  It’s bad enough that I have to deal with the Evil Eye when I go out anywhere, but having to deal with it in my own home is almost unbearable.  I feel her eyes on me constantly.

The first time she walked in on me while I was taking a shower and wanted to talk about my body, I thought it was just the natural curiosity a twelve-year-old feels about her changing figure.  I thought she wanted to talk to someone old enough to answer her questions yet young enough to understand the reasoning behind them, but it kept happening.  Each time her questions became more personal and each time she would stare at me longer.  I finally realized that her driving desire was to look like me, to be mature like me.

Everything that was going wrong had been her fault and I hadn’t made the connection.  The electricity going out just before I could save my ten page report on Leonardo Da Vinci, the garbage truck side-swiping my Focus, the window in my bedroom breaking during that rainstorm last summer and ruining all of my drawings, it was all her fault.

The next time she invades my bathing privacy to ogle my figure, I should pull that underdeveloped bitch in with me and hold her face down at the bottom of the tub, water penetrating her nostrils.  I’ll wait until she’s gasping for air, sucking in liquid with every breath.  Then I’ll turn her over and make her sorry she ever looked at me.

I’ll kneel over her menacingly.  My pulse will be racing, trying to catch up with my brain, while I’m calculating how much damage I can do before my parents hear her howling and come rushing to her rescue.  Having no idea what I’m about to do, she’ll just lay beneath me, her saturated skirt molded to her mosquito-bite breasts.

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. :)