Midnight Fantasies

Tick tock. The clock stops and my eyelids unfasten. The fan's still on, still dangling on the hook, somehow still managing to nudge me about the sudden death that it could offer but probably never would. Honk honk. Car sounds. Honking as if a mere forced vibration is going to compel that old lady who isn't able to walk but still mutilates his grandson to cross the road faster. Everyone is in hurry. Ready to tell lies, cheat on their husband and wives, sell off their children to the buildings set up under firms that claim to make you learn the knowledge of life. Surprisingly, they never tell you that the you are not a worthless piece of scumbag whose mommy ran from daddy with the postman who still managed to rape high school girls and get off. But people are like this. They believe that whatever happens is for good and they move on. I put on my sleepers and ah! the mirror. It shines so bright as if whole sun suddenly wants to focus on this wrecked mess. But there is something about the mirror. My horn is completely normal. I know one was broken because the blood from it was my last night booze and that's why my head pains so much.

I reach for my diary in the drawer. I had to use a tissue because the handle is stained from daddy's semen from last night’s customary rape. So I take out my diary and check my schedule. Here it is, "get up, kill the guy who brings milk ( his wife is cheating on him with his brother and on his brother with their father and occasionally fucking their child. Let the man die happy), polish your claws with silver knife and then cut your nerve. It's time to die. Ting tong. Here comes the guy with milk. He looks sincere for his wife, still not staring to my pierced nipples or my bleeding hymen. He is still limp. I doubt if he is impotent but no, there is a movement. He is controlling it. I pull my claws out while giving him the payment and he dies a sudden death. The lymph nodes do make a healthy breakfast but I am in the mood for prostate. After all, it's my death day, I'll have a breakfast of my choice. So I polish my claws. They are sharp enough for the task. A neat slit running from the one corner of the eye back to the ear. My eyeball is now in my hands. While other one works fine, this one tastes bad. But I am full now. After one hell of a breakfast and dessert that turned out to be bad in taste, I neatly slit the vein running down the wrist with one of my claws. It's a bloodbath and neighbors are here for the free booze. They tie me up, hanging from the chains and fighting with their canisters below me. My brain is still connected to that body and I notice some lucky bastard get to have 97 percent of extra fuckable menstrual booze.

Splash. Water.

“Sweetheart, Wake up! You're scratching yourself again.”

“Sorry”

Tring tring.

“I'll check”

“Mom, what is it?”

“Sweetheart, the milkman died.”

“I know”

-Akhil Sachan