How fucking dare you. How motherfucking dare you look at me like that. With your dumb eyes and your perfect teeth and your B minus hair that’s probably more like a solid A most times, considering you just finished at the gym. Credit where credit is due.
But murder where murder is due, too.
If you keep looking at me like that, I will murder you. I will stab you in the chest with my keys. I will tear at the small, bloody holes with my abnormally powerful fingers. Fingers I normally reserve for wonderful things. Things like massages and handholding and giving shit to the poor or whatever. I will shove my fingers through the gaps between your ribs and rip them out one by one, then duct tape the broken pieces of rib to the backs of my hands and cosplay fucking Wolverine up and down your meaty thighs.
If you keep looking at me like that, I will stuff the carved up pieces of your body into a series of plastic bags. Bags I paid 5 cents apiece for at the Giant and I’d originally planned on using to pick up my dog’s shit later this week. I will fish last week’s bags of dogshit out of the garbage in the alley. I will put the old shitbags inside the new plastic bags where they’ll mix with the chunky bits of your shredded corpse. I will fill a garment bag with the bags of your cut up body/bagged dogshit and leave it on the front step of your parents’ house in, I’m guessing, some useless Chicagoland suburb. Where they don’t even have a Carrabba’s.
If you keep looking at me like that, I will drive your sad-ass parents to a nearby Chicagoland suburb they can’t afford to live in and treat them to a pre-funeral dinner at Carrabba’s. I will take them there on Amore Mondays and buy them as many three course meals, starting at $12.99, as they think it will take to fill the hole in their hearts. I will watch as they sob into their Small Calamari, Shrimp and Sea Scallop Spiedino, and Mini Cannolis. I will listen while they tell boring fucking stories about the shit you did growing up. I will watch as the pain of outliving their child swallows them whole while I sip on my third glass of Lyric by Etude pinot noir.
If you keep looking at me like that, I will drink six more glasses of Lyric by Etude pinot noir and show up drunk at your funeral the next day in an Uber because I don’t drink and drive. I will sit in the second row and sing “Greensleeves” at the top of my lungs while your cousin tries to eulogize your unremarkable stain of a life. I will stand up at the end of my performance and explain to the mourning assemblage of ugly assholes that, if you could’ve just kept your dumb eyes to yourself, none of this would’ve happened.
If you keep looking at me like that, I will face your parents head on and reveal that I am the person who murdered you. I will stick my finger down my throat until I force-spew chunky, purple-stained Carrabba’s lasagne directly into their faces. I will wipe the vomity corners of my mouth with the white flowers from your funeral wreath. I will laugh. I will laugh while your family shakes with fear and cries dumb little tears over the rotten, soon to be interred mix of dogshit and cut up body bits locked inside your closed casket.
If you keep looking at me like that, I will cross the very boundaries of space and time on some reverse Lovely Bones shit and strangle your smug, hovering spirit. I will wrap my abnormally strong fingers around your ghost neck and murder you a second time. I will hold on as your shitty ghost’s shitty ghost soul drags me down into the roaring fires of Hell Squared, where there are only thirteen or fourteen other dead people, because in the whole of history, there just haven’t been that many humans who have been so awful they deserved to be killed twice.
If you keep looking at me like that, I will tear your double-dead B minus hair out of your double-damned skull, as the Hell Squared Mouth closes in around me. I will braid your shimmering, bloodstained ex-ponytail into a silvery spirit rope and I will lasso my way out of the pit on the back of a passing meteorite or succubus or ball of pure energy or whatever. And you’re going to be stuck down there forever. Where they don’t even have a Carrabba’s.
If you keep looking at me like that, I swear to fucking God. I will end you. I will end the life of every single person in this average-ass coffee shop. I will be a pestilence upon this earth. I will become destruction incarnate.
I mean, how fucking dare you. How motherfucking dare you look at me like that. I paid nine dollars for this middle-of-the-road caprese sandwich. I know you just saw me drop it on the floor. I know you just saw me pick it back up. I don’t think you understand. I paid nine-fucking-dollars for this stack of tomatoes, mozzarella, spinach, and disappointment on ciabatta. There is no power in the universe that can stop what’s about to happen.
I am eating this nine-dollar sandwich.
Avert your dumb eyes.
You have no idea what else I am capable of.
This piece is a response to this week’s 7 DEADLY SINS writing prompt. If you’d like to be featured in The Prompt, send us a 400-700 word response to this week’s prompt and always, we’ll print the best submissions.