It Will Never Happen

Anyone who says they like getting tours of other people's homes is a liar. Either they’ve been unwillingly forced to participate or, like me, were forced to willfully participate. So here I am, following my overly eager new coworker as she proudly showcases her kitschy souvenirs from forgettable trips and amateur DIY renovations. Unless there’s a stack of gold bars in the basement or an Elvis Presley clone lounging in the living room, I’m not interested.

We flit from room to room until we end up at her office, her “pièce de résistance” as she calls it. It looks like a pièce of garbage to me. And no, this isn’t a matter of opinion, it’s a matter of not putting lime-green striped curtains on a black curtain rod. The room is small, only about 100 square feet, and filled to the brim with second-hand everything. A bookshelf with a sizable crack running down the side, two porcelain dogs that are begging for death instead of treats, and similar items in equal or more tragic states of disrepair. No wonder she can’t get herself together enough to get to the office on time when everything around her is barely functioning. 

She sticks her finger out like a child to point out a rug behind her half-mahogany-stained desk. Whether the unfinished look was intentional or not is a mystery, for all I know she thinks it looks chic. 

She yammers on about how the rug is an heirloom from her grandmother that she just couldn’t bear to give away. As she steps her dirt-caked shoes on the rug she cares about oh so dearly, she turns her head to gaze through the window. She looks like a Hallmark character reminiscing, out loud might I add, on what she thinks is a meaningful life.

Unable to remain focused on nonsensical talking, I tune her out, moving my attention to her idea of accolades that line a lopsided shelf. Third place in a high school cross country race, a small glass heart with “Community Leader” inscribed on top, and a certificate from her old job attempting to masquerade as something other than a participation award. 

She shifts her whole body towards the window, once again kindergartener pointing out to a birdbath her husband installed, and praises him for his unmatched renovation skills. The only thing he should be praised for is his consistency in going to the gym where he probably does cardio workouts that don’t involve running. How would I know this? It’s only been an hour and I’d do anything to get out of this house and away from the decorator herself.  

I pick up the glass heart and weigh it in my hand, it’s got some good weight to it. I slip it into my pocket and walk over to look at the “handiwork” to murmur a comment about how strong her husband must be to carry the 10-pound plastic bath. Satisfied that she’s gone over her interior and exterior design talking points, she turns to face me. 

“So what do you think?” She asks eagerly, desperation for validation pouring out of her like sewage into a clean lake. She wants proof that she did a good job? Think again.  

“What do I think?” I pause, preparing myself. “I think It looks like shit,” I say grinning, “There is nothing remarkable about your unsightly apartment or frankly you. I’m only here because I lost a bet with my friends to go visit the home of the “crazy bitch from work”,” I shake my head, “Remind me not to go drinking on a work day, or don’t because then no one would even  care that you existed.” Her face freezes, the bright smile stays plastered on but her eyes shift to shock. She wasn’t expecting this, and she definitely won’t expect this. 

“If I were to spice up your home a bit,” I place my finger on my chin, “I’d add a little,” I pause again, reveling in my own anticipation, “...color.” Slipping my hand back into my pocket I grab the top of the glass heart, pointing the sharp tip towards her as I slam it into her skull. The shocked look on her face finally makes it to her face as she tumbles to the ground. God, the way she hits the floor is absolutely delicious. 

I crouch down to where she writhes on the floor, screaming as she touches her hand to her temple to find a gushing wound. I look at the pool of blood next to her body that’s slowly spreading onto the carpet, sorry not sorry Grandma.

“Wha…” She stammers. I shift the heart in my hand so it’s flat against my palm and ram the engraved side into the wound. Her screaming stops, she stops, and I’m just getting started. 

A smile, the first real one of the day, spreads across my face. I shove her all the way onto the rug, pick up the tassels of the short side, and neatly place it on her body, as I begin to roll. Her lifeless body is easy to move, none of her human instincts to escape stopping me. I pull the wrapped-up body out from behind the desk to the center of the room, careful not to spill any more blood onto the floor. She would be very upset if I ruined her pride and joy of a room by staining her faux wood floors with streaks of red. I leave her for just a moment, returning to the desk in search of a trash can to hide the heart or at least bleach wipes to remove any blood or fingerprints. 

My hand stops halfway through a drawer of paper clips as I hear a thud. No, no, no, this can’t be happening. Not again, not again. I close my eyes, hoping that if I don’t move then maybe it won’t continue. The sound of carpet unraveling and hitting the floor is barely audible over the ringing in my ears. I raise my eyes, just enough to see a corner of the now flat carpet, but not enough to see where her body once was. Apparently, things will always be in motion whether I can see it or not. Cross that theory off the list. 

I stand up at the same time she gets to her knees, using the floor to push herself up. The blood has stopped following the laws of gravity as it absorbs back into her wound. With an emotionless expression, she makes it all the way to her feet and bends down to pull on the carpet which has returned to its ugly shade of someone walking on it with dirty shoes brown instead of the masterpiece of murder it had just been. Not a drop of luscious red liquid is left behind. 

With a frustrated sigh, I move from behind the desk towards the lopsided shelf, there’s no stopping the process. I look down at the heart in my hands, of course, that blood is also gone and I have no choice but to put it back on its shelf. The carpet quietly brushes against the floor as she moves it back in place, perfectly covering the sun-stained rectangle it came from. 

She also returns to the position she was in barely five minutes ago, body facing towards the window, eyes filling with delusional pride. If only I had gotten to do it, really do it. Kill her in cold blood for the mental anguish she has put me through at work and the past hour. Instead, we’re back to the beginning. One day this will stick, one day my thoughts will become reality. 

“So what do you think?” She asks eagerly, desperation for validation pouring out of her like sewage into a clean lake.  

Back to the start as though nothing happened. Every goddamn time. Tired of disappointment I give in. She wants proof that she did a good job? I guess this time I have to think again.

 “What do I think?”