Okay – I’ve taken the Indy Ink Challenge for the first time. I was challenged by Melissa R to write something that included the following: 97 degrees, a subway ride, a high school classmate, a woman in a hat with flowers.
They look at peace is how I would describe it. The young woman and the elderly lady. They sit across from me, holding hands, whispering to each other. I hate trying to estimate someone’s age. Never been good at it – usually get it wrong by years, but the young lady looks like she is in her twenties.
She’s wearing jeans. I’d like to take a jagged rusty dagger to the throat of the man who invented jeans. Let ‘im know I’m coming for him, walk slow, real slow and…real slow, grip that knife and drag it across his throat ‘til the blood oozes out and down over his chest. Yeah – don’t much like jeans I don’t.
She looks good in ‘em though. They stroke her skin, like a man would do if he were to give her a good plugging. I bet she gets it all the time. Yeah. They’re all sluts at that age, Never learnt it makes no sense to give it away. Mama used to say who’s…no…why…hang on a bit.
What’cha wanna buy the cow for if ya get the milk for free. That what Mama said. Smart woman was my Mama. All us Hays are smart though, not just the women. Well maybe not book smart. But none of us have ever lined up with our hands out. Nope. Not a one.
So what if we didn’t get all that extra learning like doctors and such. We did all right. Street smart they call it. I like that. Yeah – street smart. I’ve been working since I was twelve.
Wonder if that twenty something slut has a job. Bet she goes to one of those nancy-pancy-fancy schools. Sits there all day reading and drinking bought coffees. Probably doesn’t even know how to make one herself. Then opens those legs for a different guy every night. Yeah. Stuck up slut. I bet. What she doing on a train anyways? Don’t Mummy and Daddy pay for a fancy silver car for her to drive?
They always drive silver cars, those spoilt rich bitches. Why is that? Isn’t a coloured car good enough for them? I’d drive a coloured car. Yellow. Yeah. Yellow’s nice. Need to get a license first. If I was gonna get a yellow car that is. Which I’m not. Rode this train damn near everyday of my life so far, hasn’t done me no harm.
I’m not a stuck up, spoilt, rich…nope. Not me.
Why do they keep whispering? Afraid someone’s gonna hear all their little secrets. Bet they’ve got a few. Yeah. That old biddy sitting there. Probably offed her husband to get her hands on all his money. Happens all the time. Cheap sluts marry some old guy who’s loaded, then slip him a nice little cocktail he’s never gonna wake up from.
Yeah. Happens a lot I bet. She looks the type. Sitting there with her pearls on. What you wanna wear pearls on the subway for? Unless it’s to let everyone know that you’re someone…sppppppeeeeeeeecccccccciiiiiiiiiaaaaaaaalllllllll. Bet she’s a tight bitch too, except when it comes to herself. Why else she is dragging that young girl on the train?
Don’t that girl have no friends her own age? Fancy college friends from her fancy school with all the parks and gardens, and what do they call those things? Yeah. I know. Sororities. Just a bunch of snotty brats who think they’re too good for the rest of us. Never really had a school friend. Except maybe that Racine kid. Yeah. Right up ’til I stabbed the little shit. Drove that blade right into his spine. Ha. Never saw it coming, dumb sucker. Never been to no fancy school, or been part of no stuck up sorority. Who needs that shit?
They’re right beside the door. Waiting for my stop I hear the girl talking. Should’ve got up earlier. Damn. They’re tourists. Not much better than the damn idiot who invented jeans.
Maybe I should wait. ‘Til they get off. Follow ‘em. Slit the girl’s throat first. Watch the blood bubble. Yeah. I like it when the blood bubbles and then pops. Little explosions. The nana won’t do nothing. Probably won’t even scream, silly old bitch. Yeah. Do her last. Slow like. Leaving little bits of rust off the knife, all along the open hole in the neck. Nice touch.
The doors open and I am pushed out by the weight of everyone behind me. Like a packet of soap flakes on the conveyor belt at the supermarket. Pushed along the platform, and up the stairs. Just a bunch of mewing cows. Follow the leader.
If there was a hole in the ground, I wonder how long it would take before they stopped falling into it. I wonder…if it reached all the way to Hell. Would it ever fill up? Maybe they’d just keep falling, burning. Their clothes melting into their flesh. Would their bodies melt, cutting off their screams of pain before they reached the end?
Out on the street the sun is burning me already. What did they say? Going to reach 97 degrees today. Bah. I bet it is already at least 100. Maybe someone should sneak into one of those TV stations and let off some poison gas. Everyone choking, falling to the floor while the cameras keep filming.
That’s a thought.
Panic. I like it when they panic. Knowing they’re dying. Not knowing how to stop dying. Their eyes go all wide and moist.
You can see fear. It stirs the blood, sends it racing to their skin. Red. Lots of red. In their eyes, and under their skin. They almost burst with it.
“Hey Mrs P.” The young man is standing by the door, holding it open.
“How was your trip?” he asks. Polite. Always polite. He’s smiling. I smile back. I can’t seem to help myself when he smiles at me. Climbing inside is a relief. The air is cool and the sweat starts to dry immediately.
Could smiling …hmmm. I wonder. Maybe it could go viral. Everyone smiling. Unable to stop. Painful in the end, always with your mouth pointing up.
“Home?” he asks when he climbs into the front seat.
“Yes please.” The street becomes a blur. He always drive too fast. One day he’s going to…
“How’d it go today Mrs P? Did you kill anyone?”
“No. Not today,” I tell him. Oh dear. I notice my reflection in the window. I look, sort of melted. Tipping my head sideways the petals on the carnation flop from side to side. Like a dead goldfish. I think it’s time I went shopping.
“I bet you planned a few,” he says.
“One or two, yes.”
“So…who were you?” he asks.
“Eeewwwhhh. I don’t like him. Bad piece of work is Billy Hays.”
“Don’t I know it John. But he is interesting.”
“Hmmm, if you say so Mrs P.”
“I’d like to stop off at the milliners John. On the way.” I examine the hat in my hands. The carnation flops about like a dead fish as I wobble it back and forth.
“Sure thing Mrs P.”
“What’s so funny John?” I ask. His smile has bent the bottom half of his face.
“You Mrs P. Nobody would ever imagine what horrible deeds you plan in that head of yours.”
“I rather thought that was the point,” I tell him. “If people knew. Well I would not be here now would I?”
“No I guess not.” He’s quiet for all of five seconds. “Did you work out…I mean…what about this one? The one you’re planning” He looks back at me through the rear vision mirror.
“I think so.” I tell him.
“Aww, come on Mrs P.”
“How about…the death of the curious chauffeur,” I smile back at him. He’s laughing loudly now.
“Writers,” he mutters. “You’re all crazy.”
Probably John, probably.
When I first saw the challenge I freaked a little. This is the third evolution of the story. Numbers 1 & 2 obviously didn’t work. This – hmmm – not sure of it yet. I think it still needs some work. I will be very interested in any opinions and suggestions.
Revenge is my 2nd attempt at the Indie Ink Challenge,