Stitches

The house was empty, at last, Brooklyn and Lola went shopping and Matt was out with Curtis. I don’t know why they’re all ‘buddy buddy’ all of a sudden. I laid back on the couch, propped my feet up on the table and folded my arms behind my head.

Admittedly, I was scared. How else can you take the situation? With a light heart and a shrug? Not at all possible. Somewhere inside me I believed that beating Eddie, if it came down to it, was plausible.

I sighed, I’m a devious fucker. It’s inevitable and denying it would make life harder. This is leading to the answer to the question: How can I sucker punch Eddie without actually touching him? There is no way my skin is touching his grubby skin, it’s likely infested with scabies and STD’s unknown to man.

If I could I’d sit him in the middle of the field and drop a nuke. His flesh would melt, his hollowed out face would peel and disintegrate into ash. Actually there wouldn’t even be ash. It would be as if he never existed.

I’m not that sadistic, though the urge was hard to resist.

The front door opened and Curtis stepped inside, his movements were signature to himself. His movements matched that of a great dane puppy; awkward and too big. I could picture him with large paws clumsily throwing them around, tripping over himself and chasing his tail.

“Is Brooke here?” Curtis asked, his hands were stuffed into his pockets which were a clear, inaudible sign that this was exactly as awkward for him as for me.

I sighed and closed my eyes once again, the negatives of the day dream flashed on the back of my eyelids. Molten skin and fire. I smiled.

“Nope,” I replied smoothly.

“Uh, okay?” He said then went to leave. I just let him go.

Do you think that by dreaming of someone’s death that I’m guilty of subconscious murder? After all, I had killed him in my mind. Time and time again I had replayed his death; a thousand different ways with each being more horrendous than the last. By dawn my guilt would consume me.

I wiped the cold sweat from my forehead and ran into the kitchen. I scrambled through the cabinets, my fingers flew furiously to the bottle of pills. I was given these to help me sleep while on tour, the constant roar of tires on pavement made it hard to sleep. I slung three pills into my mouth and grabbed a beer from the fridge to swallow them down.

If I think about killing him; then I want too. I shouldn’t want to kill someone but does it mean I will? Desire initiates the will to do.