Murder on My Mind

      I have one goal, one purpose, one destiny.

      Someone has to die. And it’s going to happen today.

Events of the past several days have stirred a slumbering malevolence in my soul that I never knew was there. Now, my inner Eldrich Horror has awakened and it desperately needs to feed.

Through forced illumination and reflection, my undeniable path is now crystal clear to me.

I’m going to kill someone. I’m just not sure who yet.

There are so many options, so many unsuspecting targets ripe for the picking. They’re all in front of me, moving through their placid days in blissful oblivion with sappy, serene smiles plastered on their faces.

They make me sick.

I want them dead. Every single one. They all deserve it.

But there’s only time and opportunity for one. And the only semblance of pleasure I get out of this endless nightmare I’m living in is knowing that I get to choose.

It might be “Jenny,” that little blonde woman who bounces when she walks, almost like she has springs attached to the bottoms of her freakishly small feet. The rhythm of her bob-bob-bobbing makes her ponytail swish behind her like a vapid puppy trailing blindly after its master. I don’t even think she realizes it.

Bob. Bob. Bob.

Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

Swish. Swish. Swish.

Every. Damn. Where. She. Goes.

We’ve never uttered a single word to one another, but I loathe her voice. Oh, I don’t need to hear it to know what it sounds like. It oozes from her pores like an acid, melting my eardrums and searing my sanity.

Her voice has that cheerleader-esque quality to it, all sharp and high and peppy and LOUD, projected with unbridled enthusiasm in a constant, rapid-fire manner in sentencesthatallruntogetherwhileshedronesnonstop until you just want to shove a gasoline-soaked rag in her mouth and set it on fire to get her to shut the hell up!

Yeah, she definitely needs to die.

Then there’s “Arnold,” or “Aah-Nod,” as I think of him. Big, hulking guy with no neck, bronzed skin, and bulging biceps that are on the verge of tearing their way through the sleeves of his stark-white T-shirts. He buys them in bulk, I’m sure of it. In the past week and a half, I’ve never seen him wear anything else.

He sees me watching and raises one of those tree-trunk limbs in greeting. I’m convinced there’s magic woven into the fabric of those shirts, because no material on Earth is capable of resisting the strain of those snaky-veined pecs that ripple across his chest when he waves at me. How much does that guy bench anyway?

Internally, I hear his thick Austrian accent (I mean, what other kind would he have?) asking me to join him for a strenuous workout to “pump *clap* you up” and release some much-needed endorphins into my decaying psyche. It must be true what they say about endorphin rushes because “Aah-Nod” is quite possibly the happiest man I’ve ever met. It doesn’t matter what he’s doing, he’s always flashing a toothy grin so wide that it blinds you if it catches the light.

He’ll probably keep smiling the entire time I’m punching those pearly white teeth so far down his throat he chokes to death.

I tingle at the thought.

I could definitely do that.

Or, I could go for the two-for-one special of “Charles” and “Diana,” the better-than-everyone-else aristocrats with the slick British accents (that one’s a no-brainer) and their noses lofted so high in the air they’d drown if it ever rained. They traipse in here like royalty with their old money that bought their way into this hellish compound, some obscenely sizeable donation to implement “sensory spiritual cleansing” into the curriculum.

Don’t even ask me what that means, because I wouldn’t be allowed to tell you even if I knew. From what I can gather, it’s just a bunch of hoodoo-voodoo nonsense designed to detoxify chakras or awaken one’s inner child or some such bull-butter that makes me want to rip out my rotted soul and use it like a garrote to strangle the both of them.

I almost smile at the mental images of red-tinged saliva bubbling over the corners of their perpetually cheerful grins as their faces turn a lovely shade of blue and their heads explode in a shower of blood and gray matter.

Almost.

But I’ll save my inevitable last-laugh smirkfest for Dick – yes, that’s actually his real name, although it’s also as good a description of his personality as anything I could drum up on my own.

This circus clown is the reason I’m in this predicament, contemplating the most brutally satisfying way I can to thank him for his bullshi-caca suggestion that I follow him on this ridiculous quest for mindfulness and inner peace.

Twelve days ago, he approaches me with his thick, nasaly Bronx dialect (that I’ve heard a million times and it always makes me cringe when he starts off with “Yo, bro …”).

Before I can stop him, Dick launches into some lengthy spiel about me joining him in a quest of meditation and communing with nature and cleaning out the dark cobwebs lurking in my brain to let the light shine in or some such hippy-dippy crap that said brain barely has time to register.

That day, when I was still allowed to speak to him, I rebuff his ridiculous offer with a polite, “No, thank you. I’m going to have to pass.”

But Dick has never let a perfectly good “no” stop him.

“It’ll be good for ya, ya know?”

“I appreciate it, but, no.”

“Don’t knock it till ya try it.”

“Still no. But, you go right ahead. Let me know how it turns out.”

“A lot of my friends have done it. They’re changed men. For the betta.”

“I’m happy with myself the way I am. I happen to like the inner me. Go away.”

“But you haven’t even seen the brochure. Here. Take a look.”

And before I can give him my best, “If you don’t get out of my face, I’m going to beat your face in,” he grabs my hand with his meathook and thrusts this crumpled, tri-fold pamphlet into it, refusing to let go until I “Just give it a once-over. You’ll see.”

Calling forth all the self-control in my body to keep from grinding his face into the concrete sidewalk where we’re standing, I suck in a deep breath and turn the leaflet over. The front cover shows a picture of rolling hills and green trees and a sunset-filled sky beneath the words “Surrender Yourself to the Silence.”

For some reason that I still can’t fathom, I open it. It’s even worse on the inside.

“Leave behind the chaos of the outside world and join us for two weeks of personal reflection in this tranquil mountain complex where participants channel their thoughts and calm their souls as they travel the path towards spiritual enlightenment and illumination, all wrapped in the comfort of blissful silence.”

“See, it looks nice, don’t it?” Dick says. “Real peaceful-like and everything. You’re gonna love it. I already signed us up. We leave first thing in the morning. I’ll be ’round to pick you up at 7.”

And then he’s off.

And then it’s morning.

And, somehow, I find myself in his rusty old beater headed towards Camp Mystic Soul Sucker something-or-other where, for 11 days, I’m surrounded by bare-footed bohemians wearing tunics and flowy pants (and “Ah-Nod” in his tight, tiny tees) walking aura-deep through the wilderness, enthusiastically taking part in “mindful meditation,” “hallowed soul yoga,” “Tibetan throat humming,” and the “Royals’” sensitivity spirit showers – all in bone-dead, mind-numbing silence.

Since. Day. One.

I watch them pray. I watch them fast. I watch them twist their bodies into inhuman pretzel-like positions while reaching for the “light” I guess they thought would shine out of the butts they thrust high into the air.

And through it all ... Every. Single. One. Of. Them. Smiles.

And they never stop.

And all I want to do is to rip those twisted lips right off their stupid faces and turn them back into the cannibalistic carnivores they are truly meant to be.

My “task” at this silent retreat is to reach deep inside myself and “find my higher purpose.” It’s all I’ve thought about since I arrived and was stripped of my phone, my voice, and my dignity.

Well, I have discovered it all right. My “purpose” is to rid the world of these drum-beating, kale-eating freaks so that no one ever has to endure torment like this in the name of friendship.

And, the instant they allow us to speak again, the first person I’m going to find is Dick.

My new "enlightenment" is his fault, after all.

I won’t actually say anything to him. I think I'm getting the hang of this silence thing. I’ll just turn on the smile I’ve been saving up and shove this damnable brochure right down his gullet and shred his vocal cords so that he never utters another insane suggestion to anyone again. Ever.

He’ll get the message loud and clear as he bleeds out onto the earth that he's so eager to become "one" with.

I finally spot Dick over by the “PositiviTree” where we tack little notes of affirmation for each other. I mold the camp leaflet into a tight cylinder and twist the end to the sharpest point possible. He notices me and gives me a nod and thumbs-up, beaming from ear to ear. I nod back and start walking his way.

He has absolutely no idea what’s coming

Yeah, I’ve been “illumed” all right.