If I had my way, they'd turn you over to me and I would hang you up in the town square and play piñata--just because I could.
I would take a dark navy blindfold and fold it three times over so you couldn't see. Black seemed too ominous but if I gave you navy, well then you would think you still had a chance, and you could argue that when you looked down, while up on this guillotine of sorts, you could just barely see enough to have the outskirts of your nose blurring what was left of your vision.
You were a sorry excuse for a man. Always telling me things that you didn't mean and meaning things that you didn't tell me. Always turning me into a cliche.
I started thinking about the Jekyll and Hyde of this all, and about why everyone else could see it except for me. I had been, apparently for years now, immune to your deceptive abilities at conversation.
Maybe I could give you some words up there and we could play Hang Man. I was always better at that game than you. Why would now be any different?
An aluminum bat would be best. And I think your innards would fair slightly better than if I used my father's Louisville Slugger. There was a small semblance of decency, pity even, left in me. But choosing aluminum was perhaps the only evidence of such humanity.
When my grandmother was little, all the men in Chicago who were murdered by Al Capone and his cronies were murdered with their backs turned to the door. The gangsters would come into the restaurant and open fire on a target who had their back facing the entrance of the establishment. She told me it was because they were cowards and they didn't want to remember the person's eyes when they killed them, for fear that it would haunt them eternally.
I would like to think I felt that way about you and that is why I offered you the blindfold, but I think I'll take it off. You always had a vicious poker face and I'd like to show you the same in return.
And up here, I would call a meeting of the minds, so we could examine your seven points, your seven deadly sins, to say the least.
Stepping onto the platform, I would imagine this was Mudville, but with a more promising turn of events.
If I had my way, my means, soon enough, the contents of you would soak this wood red and good.
Red.
And good.
This piece was certainly aggressive. It seemed more an exercise in stream of consciousness than a focused, pointed passage. The references to your family and memories seem out of place, as if you are not wholeheartedly committed to destroying that which is in front of you. Perhaps this is evidence of your "small semblance of decency". What did you mean about the "seven points"? The Mudville reference seemed an apt one and I loved when you wrote "the contents of you would soak this wood red and good". This was the highlight of the piece. The vague description of the person you loathe so much is lost on me. You bring us into your violent mind and you express your contempt, but the reader never fully understands why you feel the way you do.
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