The Wretched

I glance down at the steaming cup of coffee, as I sit back into my recliner.
It was set there, as it always is, right on time. The aroma, tells me it's
exactly the way I like it and it's making me sick already.

I know she's there, without even looking. She's always there, somewhere,
right where she should be, at just the right time, doing just the right things.
The thought of her makes me even more sickened. I know, without looking,
the arc of her wretched hunched back will be there, just a couple feet
away in her rocking chair. I try pretending she isn't there, but the clickity-
clack of her knitting has started. It's deafening. This day, like any other,
is making me insane. I can smell her and my coffee. I can smell the detergent
she uses. I can hear her breathing. My head swims.

I can't resist but to glance, one eye squinting in disgust. The beast, and her
wrinkled skin, doesn’t notice me watching. It's 6am. I'm ready to leap out of
my chair and twist her fucking head right off. I imagine her perfectly crafted
hair, white and gray, now soaking in a pool of blood. How’s that for perfect?
If I didn't need this walker to get from my chair to hers, she'd be dead
already.

I'll have to catch her in passing. Maybe lean my walker out just enough to trip
her ass. Her face would flatten to the floor, knocking her perfectly brushed
teeth right in. She’s smacking her lips now. She does that when she's really
into her damned knitting. Every time I hear the sound, another nail drives into
my forehead. 63 years of this shit.

I would have to make it look like an accident though, she knows every damned
neighbor for 10 miles. Hugging and kissing and blessing their damned hearts at
every eager conversation. It sickens me. Must she really stick her nose into
everything? She starts, as usual, rattling off gossip. It's something about Edna.
She was already at her house this morning, dropping off some crap for some
damned recipe. I have no interest whatsoever. As she's waving her hands
around I notice her sagging arms. I'm cringing.

Her breasts are in her lap. She's dressed to the nines, in some flowery printed
crap. She's already been somewhere, done something, talked to someone,
planned some event, learned some ridiculous gossip, is spreading the news
around, and telling me that Susan is coming over in 15 minutes. This’ll have to
happen fast. She's going to want to get out of that squeaking chair soon. She'll
want to start making something in the kitchen, no doubt. Whatever it is, it'll
be wrapped up in a bow, have some unpronounceable foreign ingredients, and
have some fancy name. Who the hell eats that shit.

She's bitching at me now because I didn't take a shower and get dressed yet.
For Christ sake it's 6 god-damned-AM wench! I don't hear the words anymore,
just the tone of her irritatingly subtle, non-stop, nagging voice. I use my foot
and situate the walker a little closer in front of me. I'll just casually start to get
up when she passes, and my foot will accidentally kick the walker on its side.
Yes. I've had enough. I better put my glasses on, I don't want to miss.

I start pretending to watch TV, my eyes straight ahead. My mind though,
working in perfect harmony with my ears. Waiting. Waiting to hear the sound
of her chair as she rises. It's still slowly rocking, creaking, and cracking. I'm
sweating. My foot jerks uncontrollably. I almost blew the whole damned
thing. Get a hold of yourself. Stay calm. Focus. It must be done.

3 excruciating silent minutes later, my leg is so tense, I'm about to burst!
Suddenly, my leg spasms and I kick the walker onto its side! Son of a bitch I
ruined it! I glance over and see Martha is leaning forward in her chair, one arm
stretched outward, holding her cane out in front of herself at a perfect
angle to the floor.