False Self Control


I sometimes have these thoughts, you know? Sometimes I want to get into someone’s house late at night while everyone is sleeping. I want to pick up one of their knives and I want to cut them. I want to feel their warm skin turn slick as they sweat the life out of their bodies. I want to feel their hot blood on my fingertips. I want them to breathe their last few breaths into my ear as I slowly listen to them fade from their pointless existence. Then, when it’s all over, I want their family to wake up and see what I’ve done. I want them to feel pain, to feel tortured by their loss and the fact that they can never fully recover from such a horrible things. I want to do that, so badly it hurts.

I don’t, but if I did, it would start with the receptionist at work. Every morning I show up, and every morning she’s there. She smiles from ear to ear, a fake one that we all can see but she continues to pawn as if it’s as real as the caked make-up covering her normal face.

Don’t misconstrue my last comment and think that I don’t like the normality of the real human. I do. I love how people smell unwashed, how people look without make-up. I love how their emotions break them, and how they break themselves more than other people do. It’s fake people that I despise, and I’m sure most of you will agree with me, right?

Just this morning, when I got to work, I stepped inside the lobby, and there she was, just sitting there with that little phone device clipped to her ear. Her thick brown hair bounced over her shoulders, three of four strands sticking to her lipstick. She laughed that fake laugh and breathed those fake works into the phone, but I knew. I always know.

That was the moment I knew I wanted her to be my first. Sure, I’d taken out cats in the past, even cut out their tongue because I hated their wailing and moaning and insincere cries for love and attention.

That’s what I wanted to do to Lilly.

That was her name. Lilly. It was cute, sweet, and unequivocally not a representation of what sat in that chair. No. What sat in that chair was a woman who cared more about her appearance and less about her true self. She looked through you instead of meeting your eyes. She talked at you instead of with you. She was a prime example of a human being gone wrong, and I refused to speak to her.

This morning was no different. She greeted me, and I thought about those cats, thought about insincere gestures and thought about cutting out her tongue. I thought about splashing acid in her face to give her a reason to wear that god-awful makeup. I even thought about cutting out those plump lips, which had to be fake, too.

Instead, I just walked past her, ignoring her yet again.

I don’t know why she bothered making an effort to talk to me. I’m not an attractive man. I never have been, and I never cared to be, but my acknowledgement of this and my understanding of such facts, meant that I knew when people were bullshitting me. She bullshitted me a lot.

By lunch, I had calmed down. I had rice and teriyaki chicken. It was good, juicy. A solid meal that wasn’t too heavy nor too light. The problem was that the people in the food court across from my office took too long to cook my meal, and so I got to work later than I usually do. This meant that I got back to the lobby after Lilly, and that I had to once again deal with her. I’ll make the food service employee pay later.

When I arrived back in that lobby, something was different. She continued to look down at the computer at her desk, clicking away. There was no smile, just the slack face of an uninterested person sitting there, uncaring and bored. I furrowed my brow and walked all the way up to her. She continued to ignore me, but I knew she knew I was there. She knew my smell. She commented on how rare the cologne I used was, and was even able to name it.

It’s worth mentioning that I don’t wear cologne because I care what I smell like. I don’t. Other people do. You don’t become as successful as I’m smelling like a rotting onion that bathes in shit if that shit where the diarrhea equivalent for flu-ridden rotted onions. It doesn’t happen. Manipulation is key, and cologne to mask the reality of human decay is always top of the list.

Anyway, I sat there for a moment, and commented, “Hot outside today.”

She simply nodded, and continued to look at her computer screen. She blatantly ignored me. At least if I had said nothing, it might have seemed like maybe she didn’t even know I was there. Maybe she had a cold and couldn’t smell me. It was certainly possible, at least, until I opened my mouth. She remained silent.


When I got back to my desk, I sat there for a moment and thought about how she reacted to me. If there was anything I hate more it’s when people treat me poorly. I can’t stand it.

At the end of the day, I went home. I sat here for a while, too, and then sat there a bit longer. The whole time it was silent, so I was able to think about what she did to me. Then I realized she could make it up. I knew she lived with her mother and father. She had no children and no husband. I’m sure she had a good fuck she enjoyed from time to time, even if it wasn’t always the same man, but there was no one serious in her life. I wished there was because then it would make everything so much sweeter. However, her parents finding her in the morning would have to do.

Now, I wait until the clock strikes one in the morning, whereupon I’ll make my way to her house at the address provided to me by the computer systems at work. I’ll sneak in, and I’ll cut her. I’ll taste her blood. Smell her fear. Feel her pain, and when it’s all over, I’ll revel in the additional pain her death causes. Maybe I’ll leave a note. Perhaps I won’t. I have yet to decide, but I’m sure whatever decision I make, it will be the right one and it will be glorious.


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