Sometimes being an asshole was the greatest thing ever. I killed him and I felt no remorse, no guilt, no nothing. I hated every single thing about him; his ways, his footsteps, his smell, his funk, his very existence on this planet.
I hated the air that he breathed, which made it worse because sharing space with him meant that I hated the air that I breathed too.
I felt euphoric after killing him. It was cathartic, liberating, exhilarating. I’ve never experienced such joy in my life. The only problem was his brother. They were all that they had. It was just the two of them. It was a pity.
Would I feel sympathy for his brother when he found out? Not really. What I do know is that it would be overshadowed by my profound joy of his death.
How did I kill him? It was simple enough. He always ate and drank my stuff even though I continuously demanded he stopped. He was a waste of time, a waste of space. A waste of air on a brainless face.
I told the brother to tell him to stop interfering with my stuff. The brother did not listen. No one listened…except Death.
When I snapped, I made sure that only I existed.
I stopped buying certain things after it became apparent that he would never stop eating and drinking my stuff. I stopped buying juices, stopped buying ice cream, cakes and the like. Alas, he would find new ways to torment me.
He decided that he would start to use the items that I bought to cook with and leave all of the dirty wares on the stove, in the sink, on the kitchen counter. His was an existence built on filth. He was the trash can, CAN. He looked the part, he smelt the part, he lived the part. He was the part.
His disgusting sweat would permeate every inch of the house especially the kitchen and walls of the bathroom. The sink, the toilet, even the bathroom suffered from his stink. The black on the floor from his tar covered feet, sullied everything like a skin eating disease.
Everything he touched had to be disinfected, for he was a walking plague of pollution. Soap and water did not exist to him and everything he touched became rotten and decrepit.
Day by day, my abhorrence for him grew like a seed planted in the ground, taking firm roots. The leaves of that tree were luscious and beautiful. Inhalation of its fumes would get you high on disgust and disdain. Even you would be affected and would want to eliminate him again and again.
The rice was poisoned. Yes, it was. And like the arrogant buffoon he was, he ate it. He ate it. He died. I didn’t give a damn.
I heard the sounds. The grunts, the crashing of bottles and wares in his garbage dump room. His brother went to see what was wrong. I sat quietly, reading a book or pretending that I did. His brother was delirious with panic and worry.
The ambulance was called. Too little, too late. It was the epidemic of fate. His brother, devastated, and I, elated. Never was I to see clouds again. My friend Sunshine had returned to reign.
The rats did him in, said the coroner’s report. The three blind mice. They frolicked on the rice. Oh how they ran. Beautiful creatures plucked from the drain. The deed was done and never were they to be seen again.
I felt sorry for the brother. It was a minuscule feeling. A point zero one percent feeling. I was happy that the fool was gone. Happiness now my endless song.
Little did I know, that the panic and worry was just an act. The brother was just as elated way before he was cremated. The only difference, he handled it with tact.