Die.

I looked up and smiled for the first time that night when I saw something red on the road.

You were across the street waving to me, and my stomach fell because I didn’t want your company. But as you crossed the street, you slipped in the puddle of rain in the middle of the road.

And a bus ran over you.

The blood squeezed out of your body mixed in with the rain really beautifully, bleeding onto the road, making what looked like a skinny flower. I could hear people screaming, and a siren from an ambulance.

But then you put your hand on my shoulder, asking me why I was smiling like that. Oh. You’re alive. I looked at the road with the puddle of rain. It was squeaky clean. I was just imagining things.

The rain stopped, and I answered you. Just daydreaming, I said. Daydreaming? You asked. And then you did what you do best. Annoy the hell out of me with your nonstop chatter. Your topic was about daydreaming and I wished I answered you by pushing you onto the road instead.

You decided to attach yourself to me that evening, following me where I was going to eat dinner. You said you were starving, and I didn’t care. You were putting your heavy hand on my shoulder every once in a while and I hated it. But once, when we were only a few steps from the fast food place, it felt like you were pulling me down. I looked behind me, and you were on the ground.

You were clutching your stomach, closing your eyes. When you opened them, they were pleading. Food, they said, or else you were going to starve to death. You were getting thinner, thinner, thinner.

You disappeared and I smiled.

I turned away from you, and oh shit. That’s right, I was just imagining things. You were already at the door of the fast food, motioning for me to hurry up. My stomach grumbled then, and I had no choice but to follow.

Why are you so annoying?

You and your complaining about everything, while I only complain about people who excessively complain. You and your grabbing food from my plate because yours is finished and it doesn’t occur to you to just buy more. You and your disregard for personal space, especially mine. You and your criticizing everything.

It was the combination of all of these that makes me imagine things happening to you.

You complained about the seats in this place because they didn’t have back rests. Blah blah blah. I wish I could drown you out. But I can’t because you’re right beside me, getting unreasonably close. When my hand traveled to the fries in front of me, I found out there were no fries in front of me. You ate them all. And with a mouth full of fries, you looked me over and said, why are you so ugly?

Oh, you bastard.

I grabbed the fork from your side of the table. I stuck the fork into you, twisting it up, like what you did with the pasta you ordered. Your skin tore here and there, and you asked me what the fuck I was doing.

I didn’t answer but just stabbed you again and again and again with the fork, hoping you’d get an idea of what I was doing if I did it repeatedly.

I heard laughing. I looked everywhere, and realized it was coming from me. I took a break from stabbing you and waited.

Waited.

You were still bleeding and you weren’t moving.

I closed my eyes and opened them again. You were still there. The fork was still in my hand. It wasn’t tomato sauce that was on it. There were people screaming all around me, people throwing up. I pinched myself. I slapped my face.

Nothing changed. I wasn’t imagining anything this time.

Oops.

The End