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Show CHRYSALIS pAGE igi "All right! I did it all on purpose! I messed up the toilet, and I wrinkled your shirt and soured the milk just so I could laugh at you in my sleep, thinking how mad you'd be!" I fling a pencil at him. It grazes his ear and hits the wall behind him. "That's in case you want to add anything else to your damned list - miss-matched socks or something." He is surprised. "You could have hurt my eye," he says, picking up the pencil. He snaps it in two and throws the pieces in the trash. "You can go to hell," I say. "I resign. I never wanted to be a bookkeeper anyway." I jerk the door open, trembling with rage, and slam it behind me - on the fingers of my left hand. I am too angry to feel any pain, but outside under the street light, I see all the fingers are swollen and bleeding. Shit. Now I've probably managed to break all my stupid fingers besides. It will give him something else to rave about. The rage is worse than the pain, but my fingers will not bend. How dare he speak to me like that? In three months I may be dead. He'll be sorry when I'm dead. I picture him weeping, unconsoled in guilty remorse, head in his hands, repeating my name and wild with grief. I am glad. He'll wish he'd never - what's wrong with me? What am I thinking? I can't believe that just came out of my head. This is absurd. |