It All Comes Undone

I never walk into a room hoping that someone will show me every single mundane detail of their home. Yet here I am, trailing behind my new ditz of a coworker, feigning interest in her kitschy mementos from unremarkable trips, and poorly done DIY renovations. Unless you have a stack of gold bars in your basement or a clone of Elvis Presley in the living room, I don’t care.

We flit from room to room until we end up at her office, her “pièce de résistance” as she calls it. I think it’s a pièce of garbage. 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 over 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 crumbling. 

She sticks her finger out like a child to point out a rug behind her half-stained desk. Whether the unfinished look was intentional or not is lost on me, 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 very dearly, she gazes through her window as though she’s a Hallmark character reminiscing on what she thinks is a meaningful life.  

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

She shifts her whole body towards the window and kindergartener points out to a birdbath her husband installed, praising 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? I do anything to get out of this house, especially somewhere away from the decorator herself. 

I pick up the glass heart and fold my fingers over it, it has got some good weight to it. I slip the heart into my pocket, walk over to look at the “handiwork”, and 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 shifts to face me. 

“So what do you think?” She says with the anticipation of compulsory compliments pouring out of her. She wants validation, proof that she did a good job, and I’m not going to give it. 

“What do I think?” I pause, preparing myself. “I think It looks like shit,” I say, “There is nothing remarkable about your 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”. Remind me not to go drinking on a work day, or don’t because then no one would even know you existed.” Her face freezes, the bright smile plastered on but her eyes emote 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, 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 doesn’t get a chance to express fear as she tumbles to the ground, it’s 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 Grandma.

“Wha…” She stammers. I shift the heart in my hand so it’s flat against my palms ramming 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 onto my face. I shove her onto the rug, pick up 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 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 floor with streaks of red. I leave her for a second, 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 coming from in front of me. This can’t be happening. 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 wounds. 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. Not a drop of luscious red liquid 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. 

Just like the carpet she 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 for the past hour. Instead, we’re back to the beginning. One day this will stick, one day my thoughts will become a reality. 

“So what do you think?” She says with the anticipation of compulsory compliments pouring out of her.

Back to the start as though nothing happened. Every goddamn time. Tired of dissapoint I give in. She wants validation, proof that she did a good job, and this time I had to give it to her.

 “What do I think?”