The bag of maggots squelch and ooze when I sit on them. Shit. I scoop them up and throw them at the wall, I don’t have time for this. I grab my suitcase. To leave. Without him. I always threatened this day would come, I can’t wait to see the look in his face when I actually do it. Wait.
I’ll get the butcher. What? It’s not like I’m actually gonna cut him or anything. Although I would savour it…the inky blood gurgling out his mouth, the pity in his bulging eyes…I think I’d cut his arm first. Just karma, babe. That’s right. He was the reason I did it in the first place – too fucking ignorant to figure that one out. Too fucking ignorant.
Well, that’s just too bad. He has to learn – I mean, someone has to teach him that his actions will have consequences – I mean come on. Oh, man, I’m salivating. I’ll be the one to teach him. How sweet. How deliciously, devilishly sweet.
Because he taught me how to hate, so I’ll spew it back at him – wrench open my guts and smear him with my gelatinous intestines. I’ll whack him with them, take the stomach and pound it right across his ugly face. His hating face. That face, creased only at the forehead – two big lumps rooted on top of the join of his brow – growing growing – pumping up every time he scolds me. The only thing time has to show for him.
I think I’ll lick his venom, see what it tastes like – would it really taste like human ashes, as I imagined? Or maybe like the puss you get from a ruptured boil. All yellowy and rancid. That’s what it’ll taste like – his venom, I mean.
His shoes – I’ll have to do something with his shoes! The boots that kicked me – the shoes that hit me right there, deep down there. Maybe his tie! The tie he throws on after – his superhero mask, his Clark Kent glasses. I’d watch him pull it up his soft neck – hold my breath. Maybe.
Or his tongue. I could fry it then feed it to a bird. A poor bird, one with wings too large for its body – or hopes too large for its wings, who knows.
I think I should let him decide. Maybe. I’ll be a teacher – Mrs Collins – the one who asked me, “If you were me, how would you punish you?” Or Mrs Burry, yes – the teacher who cried out her sorrys, not to me but to my parents – to my dad. Who might have hugged me. Only for one moment. But didn’t.
I’m a poor fool, aren’t I? A silly, poor old fool.