This project was awarded 3rd place in Northern Virginia Community College’s Literary Journal, Calliope

It all Comes Undone

I have never walked into a room and hoped that someone would show me every single mundane detail of their home. Yet somehow here I am, trailing behind my new coworker, feigning interest in her kitschy mementos from unremarkable trips, and the poorly done DIY renovations scattered around her apartment. Unless you have a fish tank with a tiger shark in the basement or a clone of Elvis Presley in the living room, I don’t care.

We flit from room to room until we end up at her office, her “pièce de résistance” as she calls it. I think it’s a pièce of garbage. The room is small, only about 100 square feet, and filled to the brim with second-hand furniture. A bookshelf with a crack running along the side, two porcelain dogs that beg for death over treats, and other similar items in equal or more tragic states of disrepair. 

I drag my finger through a thin layer of dust on a small wobbly cabinet in the corner of the room. 

She yammers about a rug that her grandmother gave her as she walks around a partially mahogany-stained desk, stepping on it to get a good view of the 4ft by 4ft window. Unable to remain focused on nonsensical talking, I tune her out, moving attention to her idea of accolades that line a lopsided shelf above the cabinet. First place in a pointless high school cross country race, a small glass heart with “Community Leader” inscribed on top and a certificate from her job that’s pretending it’s not just a participation award. 

She turns her back, pointing out to a birdbath her husband installed, and praises him for his unmatched renovation skills. The only thing he should be praised for should be his consistency in going to the gym where he probably does cardio workouts that don’t involve running. I pick up the glass heart and fold my fingers over it, it’s heavier than it looks. I pocket the heart, walk over to look at the “handiwork”, and murmur a comment about how strong her husband must be to carry the 10-pound plastic bath. Satisfied that she’s gone over her interior and exterior design talking points, she shifts to face me. 

“So what do you think?” The anticipation of the compulsory compliments poured out of her. She wants validation, proof that she did a good job, and I’m not going to give it. 

“It looks like shit,” I say flatly, “There is nothing remarkable about your apartment.” Her face freezes, the bright smile plastered on but her eyes emote shock. She wasn’t expecting this, and she definitely won’t expect this. 

“I think it needs more,” I pause, reveling in my own anticipation, “...color.” Slipping my hand back into my pocket I grab the top of the glass heart, pointing the sharp tip towards her as I slam it into her skull. The look of shock on her face turns to fear as she tumbles to the ground, it’s delicious. 

I lean down to where she writhes on the floor, screaming as she touches her hand to her temple and finds a gushing wound. Sorry to her grandmother, there’s blood on your heirloom. “Wha…” She stammers. I shift the heart in my hand so it’s flat against my palms ramming the engraved side into the wound. Her screaming stops, she stops. 

A smile, the first real one of the day, spreads onto my face. I pick up the short side of the rug beneath her, place it on her body, and start to roll. Her lifeless body is easy to move, none of her human instincts to escape stopping me. I pull the wrapped-up body to the center of the room, careful not to spill any blood onto the floor. She would be very upset if I ruined her pride and joy in a room by staining her faux wood floor with streaks of red. I leave her for a second, returning to the desk in search of a trash can to hide the heart or at least bleach wipes to remove any blood or fingerprints. 

My hand stops rummaging as I hear a thud coming from in front of me. This can’t be happening. I close my eyes, hoping that if I don’t move then maybe it won’t continue. The sound of carpet unraveling and hitting the floor is barely audible over the ringing in my ears. I raise my eyes, just enough to see a corner of the now flat carpet, but not enough to see where her body once was. Apparently, things will always be in motion whether I can see it or not.

I stand up at the same time she gets to her knees, using the floor to push herself up. The blood has stopped following the laws of gravity as it absorbs back into her wounds. With an emotionless expression, she makes it all the way to her feet and bends down to pull on the carpet which has returned to its ugly shade of someone walking on it with dirty shoes brown. Not a drop of luscious red liquid left behind. 

With a frustrated sigh, I move from behind the desk towards the lopsided shelf, there’s no stopping the process. I look down at the heart in my hands, of course, that blood is also gone and I have no choice but to put it back on its shelf. The carpet quietly brushes against the floor as she moves it back in place, perfectly covering the sun-stained rectangle it came from. 

Just like the carpet she returns to the position it was in barely five minutes ago, body facing towards the window, eyes filling with delusional pride. If only I had gotten to do it, really do it. Kill her in cold blood for the mental anguish she has put me through. Instead, we’re back to the beginning.

“So what do you think?” The anticipation of the compulsory compliments poured out of her.

We are back where we started. She wants validation, proof that she did a good job, and this time I’m going to give it to her.