No Idea

Red, Fat, Waxy Lips

Sure, I believe that she thinks I'm upset. That was the point. It's likely that she can see the way my gaze is fixed and that my cheeks wear a hint of red. It is irrelevant, really, how we arrived here. I bet she thinks that I'm angered out of embarrassment, or that my ego is wounded so I sit here quietly. She thinks she has the upper hand, as she cuts me down. Thick careless whacks of insult showered with thin layers of faux politeness and caring. She shifts from pious judgment to a barely human form of empathy. The kind of empathy so many others wield in a clumsy and careless way. The self-righteous kind that breaths into her the air of superiority. After all, she thinks in her sticky sweet singsong voice, "It's my job. I am the boss after all. I'm helping her to grow, you know, for the company". I can almost feel her fat, red, waxy lips smack as she comforts herself with her proud thoughts. She watches me and relishes the fruit of her efforts. All better now...right... we can move on now...right? She observes and assesses me based on knowledge of typical human experiences, the same way so many others do. Assessing...scrutinizing...judging. All based on how she has seen others respond and behave so many times before.

But...

Oh, sweet rapture...

She has no idea...

She has never met anyone like me before...

I am not who she thinks I am. I sit here shrouded in the skin of a human. It fools her. That self-righteous sow. I can smell the stink of her fat, cold, rancid heart. She has no idea what lay beneath this shroud. A monster, unseen. Cruel and venomous. She has no sense that this beast could tear her flesh and destroy her. "Oh, there they are, the claws". I think with seething tones. "Oh yes, the claws". The very thought of my claws causes me to feel a deep pouring warmth within me. This is going to feel so good, sheer ecstasy. Long thin razors stained with the blood of those who thought themselves better. Dark and quiet as they move through the flesh. On occasion, those who are honored to receive the claws don't even know that they have moved through their flesh. Just a feeling that something dreadful has occurred. A sense that there is an end coming.

Oh, these sweet, sublime claws that can slice and cull. Extract the heart of the sow. Then those blood shot judging eyes, thinly vailed with false empathy, with her merciless humanity, those eyes will turn. Turn to bloody terror. Large and glassy. No lids to cover them. Her wagging tongue will lay silent after her heart bulges and slides through her skin. I take her heart and place it in the only vessel perfectly fit to cradle it. Her favorite Yankees baseball mug, you know, the one stained with the red wax from her fat lips. I place it on my desk where one would usually place a bouquet of flowers. There I can relish my handiwork and survive the rest of an always unbearable workday.