Eye of the Beholder

Her pale blue eyes, a genetic gift from our father, will hold confusion, but no fear.  That will change soon enough.  I will reach for my mother’s disposable razor on the windowsill and rip it apart.  Pink plastic will scatter about the bathroom as I dig out the blade, slicing my own thumb in the process.  I’ll briefly consider sucking it, but have a much better use for the blood.  Diluted by the shower, it will spread easily across her midriff where her scrunched t-shirt bares it.

I’m going to dissect the line of my blood with my nazar and watch watery rivulets of red life migrate across her torso and into the shower run-off.  Apprehension and fear might dawn together.  She’ll know I’m capable of mutilating her every bit as much as she has scarred me.

“Why are you doing this?”  Her voice will be little more than a confused whisper.  For a moment, I might be almost fooled into thinking of her as I used to, as an innocent little girl, but I know better.  She deserves everything I’m going to do.

“Eva, don’t do this,” she’ll probably whimper and that’s when I’ll remember that Mama and Daddy have gone out to dinner with Uncle Samuel.  I’ll have hours to play this game.  I will look her over, considering where my next mark should be.

The metal will slide easily through the skin of her bicep.  She’ll try to fight me off, but is six inches and thirty-five pounds too small.  Her body will thrash beneath me and I might wonder if this is what it feels like to ride one of those mechanical bulls.  This is the point where her cries are going to begin, not Stacy’s terrified wailing or the old bat’s confused garbles.  It will be anger spouting from her lips, as though each cut is more insult than injury.

Her eyes will flash, pools of liquid fury.  I hate those eyes.  My tool will rise, seemingly of its own accord, to caress the furrow above them.  It would be so easy to slide it into the sockets and dig out those murky blues, like popping fresh muffins from their pan.  Anna will try to sit up, but I’ll thrust her back against the bottom of the tub.  Her head knocking against it will sound like someone rapping on a door.

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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. :)