PB&J
I've lived in this house for going on twelve years.
This is my home, but I always seem to get roommates. They're always unwelcome,
uninvited. I don't care for having them, never have. Luckily, they never stay
too long.
These new people moved in last week. They are nosy; of
course, people always are. Always going through my things. Always moving my
shit. I can't wait until they're gone. Who the fuck do they think they are?
They come into someone else's house and act like they own the damned place.
I watch them. They don't even accept the fact that I'm
here. Ignoring me as if I'd not exist if they just don't pay attention. These
people have got to go. They eat my food, keep rearranging my furniture. Hell,
they even locked me out of my own house yesterday. Fortunately, I have a secret
way in for such occasions.
But tonight, it's quiet. They went to a movie and are
going to grab something to eat while they're out. Well, by what I heard from
their conversation. It would have been nice had they actually told me to my
face instead of me having to eavesdrop like usual.
They can have their fancy dinner. I've decided to have
a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk. Simple suits me just
fine.
I sit here at the table alone, just as I like it. I've
left the jars and the loaf of bread open, in case I want another sandwich. The
knife I used to cut the bread with is by my plate. It's coated in the purple
glaze of grape jelly.
I hear the front door open. They're home early.
Part of me wishes it's the parents that left me behind nearly a decade ago, but
I know it's not. I'm sitting here on the cushioned chair, chewing on a bite
when Sherrie walks in. She stares at me like it's the first time she's ever
seen me. I swallow and smile.
“John, there's someone in the kitchen!” she hollers.
“What?” he says, more questioning what she's said and
not as a response to what she's said.
I grab the knife. I note that it's still covered with
the contents of my sandwich, and I think about licking it.
“There's someone . . .” She turns to run. “. . . in
the—”
Jumping at her, I stab her in the back. She screams
and falls forward, and I straddle her, sitting on her back—my knees are pressed
against the sides of her breasts—and slit her throat. John runs into the room.
His breath hitches, and he freezes in horror, for a moment, then he turns to
flee. I slice through the tendon above his heel. He falls forward but quickly
turns over and begins to crawl backward on his elbows. He's saying something,
but I can't hear him over the thudding pound of the sound of my heartbeat in my
ears.
I jump and begin stabbing him erratically. The knife
plunges everywhere from his stomach to the top of his head. After a while, I
finally stop. The blade in my hand is bent and unusable, so I toss it to the
side, and it clatters behind the refrigerator. John's left pretty much unidentifiable.
Standing up, I walk back to the kitchen island and
close all the makings for a PB&J. I grab the stuff and put it away before
walking to the stupid rocking chair they put in front of my bedroom door. I
move their crappy furniture and lift the duct vent. I drop to my hands and knees
and crawl into the wall, heading for my room.
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