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Could you shut up for a second, please? I’m trying to make a point.

I detest the violence inherent inside of me.

Fundamentally, I’m a good person, the one who people count on for a sympathetic shoulder or a helpful hand. What none of them know is that the comfort and help they seek is being driven by an engine of hate, so powerful that I almost have to physically restrain myself from bringing something heavy down onto their stupid faces. I don’t know what stops me, it certainly isn’t any sense of morality. Maybe I just don’t think I would ever get away with the things that I so desperately want to do. Maybe that’s just a rationalization but if it keeps me out of trouble, maybe that’s a good thing. Nobody needs to know, or see the maelstrom of spite that goes on, inside my head.

I tried seeing a therapist once. Somehow, my husband was perceptive enough (for once) to see that something was bothering me. What did I have to lose, he was volunteering to foot the bill. So sure, I’ll try anything at least once. I was going into it thinking, maybe I can bang this guy and give myself an excuse to call it quits with the husband, maybe saving his life in the process. I say this because I genuinely feel like it’s only a matter of time before there’ll be nowhere for all of this hatred to go but out.

What did the therapist have to say? He couldn’t even manage the right questions. I certainly wasn’t going to hold his hand and walk him down the path until he figured out what was raging inside of me. I’m sure he was cycling through everything he had learned from the pointless classes he took, trying to pigeon-hole me into some easily fixed category. Probably wanted to usher me out the door so he could get back to sitting in his office and fantasizing about that secretary in his office.

I know I was thinking about her.

That’s getting away from the point, though. The question isn’t, did I take the pills that he prescribed to fix me. You might as well try and repair a broken leg with Aspirin. I have no patience for that, and I’m not going to waste your time getting into it now. The point is, how do I go through my life when every moment is another version of “how much restraint do I have left”? Why do so many people stomp around in their lives, swirling around me in masses, oblivious to the danger I represent? They should just consider themselves lucky that I haven’t stepped into their path and sent them on, into the next world.

You think I’m crazy.

Maybe I am. I mean, I’m not saying that in the sense of the idiot with the clipboard, trying to stuff a pill down my throat. It’s more deep than that. There’s something fundamentally different about my character that I can’t shake, or even understand. As much as I’d like, I don’t think there’s anyone out there who could understand me. Just the other night, I was making him those repugnant beef kabobs. I can’t stand the taste of meat. At some point, I started imagining what it would feel like to take the skewers and put them through his eyes. The thought of how he might react and how easy it would be actually turned me on, it felt so good. I didn’t do it, obviously, but he did end up getting the best sex of his life that night.

You know, it’s incredibly hard to focus on my train of thought when you keep on crying like that.

Look, the point I’m trying to get at is that I think I’m just going to leave you down here. I’ll take care of you, you don’t have to worry. I won’t hurt you…probably. Don’t bother screaming, no one will hear you with this room as insulated as it is. My husband doesn’t come down to the basement, God forbid he do some laundry. But even if he did, I don’t think he even knows that we have a mud room.

I know what you’re thinking, how unfair it is, and why can’t I just let you go, and you promise you won’t tell anyone, right? The problem is that you know just as well as I do how full of shit you are. I know you have to say it, you have to say something, I just wish you could be more original. And how about you try to not be so selfish? Think of how many people you can potentially save by being down here for me to talk to when I’m feeling really bad. It’s like my own personal stress ball. What else am I supposed to do, get a pet? You think I wouldn’t hurt a harmless little dog?

There may come a time when you stop being so helpful. Or I might just get bored. Or, maybe the fires raging up inside me won’t be so easily contained anymore. Then, I’ll probably have to get rid of you. What’s the point in continuing to take medicine if it doesn’t work anymore? We’d have to stop being such good friends.

Of course, maybe that won’t ever happen.You never know.

But it probably will.

I think I love you?

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