Arsee’s little stories 45

The blood has dried on the side of my face. The flies don’t buzz around it. My throat is sore from screaming and my side hurts from being kicked. I don’t know how many days it has been since he grabbed me from the car park late that night. Ten, maybe fifteen. The cops won’t find me. They would if they could. But it will end today. I feel the weapon in my hand. Took me one thousand and eight nine repetitions of Lenon’s Imagine to fashion it out of an aluminum spoon. The problem was the blinding daylight when he opened the trapdoor. But I have studied the trajectory. Can’t miss. Won’t miss. I hear him. The trapdoor is opening. I hold the spoon tight. The light blinds me. I spring towards him and jab the spoon into his throat. When I get used to the light I see a man in a khakhee uniform lying at my feet, a spoon sticking out his neck, I hear him laughing, a blur against the brightness.

-Arsee.