I want her to never walk again and be totally dependent on someone else. I want her to have a feeding tube and never taste food again. No freedom, no joy. I want her hair to fall out and for her to weight 500 pounds. I want her bed ridden with bed soars and big black bags under her eyes. I want her bones to ache. Every tiny bone should ache with no end to the pain in sight. I want her eye sight to fail allowing her to only see shadows. I want her locked in a small, dark room with loud techno music and no heat. She should sit naked in her own filth. No dementia, I want her fully aware that she’s suffering.
I stopped and told Dr. D that I have no intentions of killing her, that would take too much work. Evil people take way too long to die, besides, murder is a lot of work. Why would I want to work that hard for someone I don’t even like? First off I’d have to get to her house which means I’d have to spend gas money to get there. Gas is $3.19 a gallon right now. Is she worth my three dollars and change? No, no she’s not. Since I know she won’t die easily I’ll have think about food and water for myself. I’d pack a lunch but I hate cold food so that means I’ll have to eat out. If I schedule it on a Tuesday I could eat cheap at Pizza Hut’s lunch bar for $2.99. So that’s settled, Tuesday would be best.
Bright and early Tuesday morning I’d arrive at her house and hit her over the head with a mallet until she fell unconscious. I’d then wake her up by tossing ice cold water in her face. After that I’d shoot her twice, drag her to the top of the building and throw her off. Knowing my mother she’d still be talking. She’s still find breath to tell me what a horrible daughter I am. In the middle of her rant about how disappointed she is in me I’ll take that lunch break…mmmm, pizza.
After an hour or so it’s back to the hard work of murder. I got back to where I left her. She picks up where she left off. “I always knew it would be you who killed me.” I get back in the car and run her over three times. She lifts her hand as if to say, “Oh Lord, why me?” and I back over her again. I get out of the car and drag her up to the top of the building and throw her off for the final death blow. Finally, she’s dead but look at me, I’m a mess. I need a shower ….hell, I need a spa day but that’ll have to wait because now I have to serve the next 25 years of my life in prison.
See, it’s not worth it. Murder is a lot of work for someone I don’t’ even like. However, it was fun thinking of her being pinned to the wall with a pitch fork then left to be chewed alive by rats. In that fantasy she had a pitch fork in her chest but still ran her damn mouth. Will she ever shut up?
Art therapy for the past week
After all that talk about pizza I’ve made myself hungry.
J of A