Yellow Dose of Obsession
VI. The Man Who Never Survived the Obsession.
Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday. Happy birthday. Happy birthday to you.
I am concerned about the well-being of the entire human race, so I will not go into detail regarding how I killed my stepmother on her birthday.
Diane laid on the kitchen floor wearing her birthday dress, a rope tied round her neck. Her eyes were open, displaying nothing but immense vacancy.
And she had her tongue out.
As for me, I was standing over her body, wearing the black jacket my father had given me last December. My eyes were hurting for some reason, and I knew it wasn’t because of tears. It was because of hatred. Pure hatred for the woman who happened to be unfortunate enough to enter our household. The woman who didn’t deserve my trust and my love.
Everything was silent, except for the ticking of the clock hanging on the wall. I looked at it: fifteen minutes past eight in the evening. A couple more minutes and my father would be home, carrying the birthday cake he bought for his new wife. I had to do something. I had to dispose of the clown.
I walked towards the kitchen cupboard to grab a brush—when something caught my eye. The painting on the wall. The painting that was supposed to show a mother breastfeeding her son. Now it was different. The mother’s eyes now looked fiercely towards me, and her baby, her baby was scratching her mother’s chest, and he was grinning ferociously at me. Oh, and I had to look away! And then my eyes, my eyes! They landed on the clown’s head, which was floating in mid-air!
I screamed and collapsed backwards, towards the ground, and something fell from my pocket. It was my canister. The canister that contained my weed. The weed that my buddies and I liked to consume. I thought I should care for that later, as the clown started laughing at me. His laugh would forever live inside my fragile mind for the rest of my life.
Then it hit me. As I bravely approached the clown’s head, I found that it was growing bigger. And bigger. And bigger. My nose bumped on the clown’s nose, and the mirror crashed on the floor.
The realization gripped me like it will never let me go. The laughing had ceased, yet I was still shaking hard; sweat was dripping down my neck like waterfall. I had to cry. I had to twist my face in agony and sit down the floor. I wept and wept until I felt my eyes incapable of producing tears. It was I.
I was the clown!
The door slammed open and my father came in, his face twisted in surprise. I gazed towards him, feeling ashamed for the sin I had committed, feeling like I should also die along with Diane.
My father dropped the birthday cake to the floor and his eyes widened with fear. And he, too, cried. He also sat down, his hands covering his face.
And together we wept.
We wept.
I am concerned about the well-being of the entire human race, so I will not go into detail regarding how I killed my stepmother on her birthday.
Diane laid on the kitchen floor wearing her birthday dress, a rope tied round her neck. Her eyes were open, displaying nothing but immense vacancy.
And she had her tongue out.
As for me, I was standing over her body, wearing the black jacket my father had given me last December. My eyes were hurting for some reason, and I knew it wasn’t because of tears. It was because of hatred. Pure hatred for the woman who happened to be unfortunate enough to enter our household. The woman who didn’t deserve my trust and my love.
Everything was silent, except for the ticking of the clock hanging on the wall. I looked at it: fifteen minutes past eight in the evening. A couple more minutes and my father would be home, carrying the birthday cake he bought for his new wife. I had to do something. I had to dispose of the clown.
I walked towards the kitchen cupboard to grab a brush—when something caught my eye. The painting on the wall. The painting that was supposed to show a mother breastfeeding her son. Now it was different. The mother’s eyes now looked fiercely towards me, and her baby, her baby was scratching her mother’s chest, and he was grinning ferociously at me. Oh, and I had to look away! And then my eyes, my eyes! They landed on the clown’s head, which was floating in mid-air!
I screamed and collapsed backwards, towards the ground, and something fell from my pocket. It was my canister. The canister that contained my weed. The weed that my buddies and I liked to consume. I thought I should care for that later, as the clown started laughing at me. His laugh would forever live inside my fragile mind for the rest of my life.
Then it hit me. As I bravely approached the clown’s head, I found that it was growing bigger. And bigger. And bigger. My nose bumped on the clown’s nose, and the mirror crashed on the floor.
The realization gripped me like it will never let me go. The laughing had ceased, yet I was still shaking hard; sweat was dripping down my neck like waterfall. I had to cry. I had to twist my face in agony and sit down the floor. I wept and wept until I felt my eyes incapable of producing tears. It was I.
I was the clown!
The door slammed open and my father came in, his face twisted in surprise. I gazed towards him, feeling ashamed for the sin I had committed, feeling like I should also die along with Diane.
My father dropped the birthday cake to the floor and his eyes widened with fear. And he, too, cried. He also sat down, his hands covering his face.
And together we wept.
We wept.