“I am not going to be killed here today. We both know this. You’re a doctor, it’s first, do no harm.”
I just examine my manicure as if no one is speaking to me.
“You took an oath. I cant tell you what you want to hear.
“And no matter what you do, it won’t work. It can’t work. Because I will never — NEVER — tell you what you want to hear. Not ever.”
Blah blah blah. I can’t wait until this is finally over so I won’t have to hear this horribly annoying refrain.
Still saying nothing.
“So, uh, why don’t we work this thing out? There has to be something else you want just as much.
“A new car?
“Or how would you like to be a millionaire?”
Hm. Really. An even mill? I don’t know how I want to play this but-
“Oh, I see that made your eyes light up.
“I really can make that happen.
“I know you don’t think I can but you don’t know as much about me as you think. In fact, you can hold me here until you really have it, and then leave the country. ”
“We’re near the border – just knock me out. I wouldn’t wake up until you’d crossed it, and by then you’d have the money. In cash.
“Your eyes are betraying you. Come on.” Aaaaand the idiotic smile again. I wonder how hard it is to smile through that kind of agony?
“You know you want to work this out. Listen, no one has to know that you’ve kidnapped me.”
I look into the eyes of my lover. Really look. Search for the person I know is in there.
All I get a hard, blank stare. Have you ever known the person you’re trying to have a conversation with just isn’t in there?
And you know what that means. That means it’s almost time for me to get what I’ve always wanted. I lean forward, eye level with my captive. I smile so the words I am about to say will be the sweetest, deepest torture.
“Can you really make that happen?”
“I promise you I can. If not, I expect to die, and frankly, if I’m going to die I want to get the shit over with.” The eyes.
So eager.
How delicious.
I have to milk this. I clear my throat.
Leaning forward to hang on my every word? Stupid reaction. That betrays an expectant attentiveness.
So very stupid.
No. Foolish. As in Fool.
Oh yes, that’s your new name. The Fool.
“Well, guess what?” I reach down and trail my finger across the duct tape that was binding The Fool to the chair.
“What?” So says The Fool, smiling widely.
“The five stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. And they are even more acute when the person you’re mourning is yourself.”
I could have an orgasm at the sound of these beautiful, abandoned sobs.
Yes. This is what I want.
That’s the start of the novel I decided to write five minutes ago. Don’t know if it’s the new beginning to a novel called “vengeance – a tale of half-crazed woman scorned” that I’ve already started, or a whole new novel. Thoughts?
(And no, it’s not a person with multiple personality disorder. It’s two people – the italics are to differentiate between narration and thought. I may just change perspective to third person to make it more clear.)
If you’re digging it, I’ll keep on writing it online all month.