The Perfect (un conte cruel) by Athan Maroulis

The Perfect (un conte cruel) by Athan Maroulis

I hate you. I hate your perfect wife with her pile of golden hair, those long satin limbs, all converging so stately as she glides through a room. She dotes on you adoringly, longfully, faultlessly and took your name with a smile, dropping those years at Smith like so many yesterdays.

You and your perfect children, in that perfectly lavender pearl aged house, a boy, a girl, with idyllic planned names that scriptfully match their prospects. Your pitch black perfect driveway, with cobblestone accents, contains only the finest machines, seamlessly lined as if they leapt from an adman’s wet drafting board.

Did you ever notice me? I have watched and waited from afar, and often, from very close. By day, by night, I watch, ever so darkly near that my breath spreads on your perfectly imperfect bevilled glass. From the park, on your early precise runs, I watch and wait. Wait, for the perfect opportunity to let you know who I am and how I will alter your immaculate perfection. I will never make it all mine, but I can, in the very least, take it all from you.

Yet there’s an ever so minor detail, one that even I myself find to be somewhat of an inverted surprise. On one solitary occasion, you were once ever so cordial to me, yet that vivid pleasantry makes me hate you even more. By my most very counterfeit nature I try to find a trace of condescension in you, yet cannot, which grates on me spleenfully. How can one be this good? That day we bumped near aisle 9 by the shelves of cereal, you offered only the most earnest of words. I next imagined a shaft shooting from the linoleum up through you - groin to cranium –like a neon medieval roadside message to the townspeople.

She has a third child in those warm eyes. The glasses emptied, she follows you and your candle up the staircase before it comes to rest. She unpeels, absorbs you, as if before you there was only emptiness. You, I don’t know what you and your goodness think? Beyond my own hateful rage of you is a place I have never gone, nor will time allow me to find out. I await like dormant cancer, throbbing, pausing for my chance, the perfect chance, the day, the moment, when I take it all. I’ve run through it a thousand times. You and yours, should, be my life. And now, upon me is the night of nights.

Just then, in a moment’s turn, beyond where words can go, I felt the sharpest fastest pain pierce through me, as gravity swiftly crumbled me into the grass. Blood rattled in my throat flowing freely thanks to some raw metallic object that stood erect from my left breast. I took a cold clotted breath, lost the ability to move, then the desire to care. I was robbed of the burden of hate, above me stood the outline of the culprit from which a voice reverberating so perfectly in its diction uttered, “I hate you. You and yours, should, be my life.”

For more of Athan's work, check out his band NØIR

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