Well, no shit. He’s always been here. Always been around, hiding in corners, or staring through windows.
And he’s always talking shit to me. One word, that’s all it takes to interrupt the flow of my day. Such powerful words he utters, penetrating, as if he’s shoved into them the entire entourage of knowledge in my psychology. And then he laughs at me, in a grotesque frequency one’s ears should never have to experience. He hurts me too, did I mention that; broken glass shards against naked skin, grazing lines that provoke dozens of crimson beads. God it hurt, fucking hurts so much. And then he tears at the wound in the most hemophilic way, liquid copper on his fingers, and smiles.
It’s the smile that puzzles me, a Duchene smile, almost like that of a real human being. Sometimes it’s so real I would come to believe, even if it’s for a second, that he was normal. What dissipates this theory was his face; he would always be a monster, a sadistic fucking beast with vibrant purple hair and rusted skin. A monster in orange pants, because it was the only pair he had that would still support his skeletal frame. When he laughs, he reveals twenty eight withered teeth. His eyes are the worst, eyes that haunt my nightmares. And it’s not because of the one seizuring eyelid, or the bloodshot sclera. It’s the over-dilated pupils that threaten extinction of his irises. Black eyes like pits, never bothering to hide the disgusting contents of his vulgar mind.
The epitome of vile; and almost as if he’s proud of it. It seems he knows no empathy, habitually tossing worthless at my face, reminding me what I failure I am. I tell him he’s not one to talk, but he would just laugh, and engulf me in profanities. His presence shadows me daily, in the form of cancerous smoke from his broken lips. A creature drenched in anomie, shamelessly pleasuring himself to thoughts of girls in suspenders. His life rationed by Wal-Mart alarms, and angry employees, and embarrassing publicity.
That’s why I have to do this. My conscience finds this completely justifiable. The monster must die; no more hurt; no more pain. I had to be quick, and stealthy, had to take him in his sleep. God knows the monster is strong, as said in fables and myths, but I can’t afford to be a coward any longer. One bullet, that should do it, fast and accurate to the fucking skull. Then he’ll be gone forever; no more shame, no more anger, no more fucking orange pants. Dismissal of the cancerous smoke, and the girls in suspenders. This world can do with one less monster.
Quietly I entered the room, not wanting to wake him. He always seemed to know what I was up to, but this time will be different. His room was dark, indicating the monster was sleeping. I can just feel it right now, corrosive breaths tainting the atmosphere, causing havoc even as he was about to be taken down. Silently, I reached for the light switch; and when I looked into the mirror, the monster stared back at me. He grinned.
I pointed the gun barrel to his head; he raised a gun to mine. It was a standoff, and neither of us would win. In fact, we could not kill each other, not this way at least. It was funny because the monster controls me, but I also control him. I looked into those grotesque eyes one last time; I am in command here, not him.
The monster gasped, shocked as the barrel of his gun shifted from my head to his right earlobe. He pleaded for me to stop, he offered to compromise, but I did not listen. The hammer cocked with a click, and for the first time in my life I saw the monster in the mirror shake with fear. He pulled the trigger, and I laughed.
