Not Very Good at Strangling [warning: strong language, graphic imagery]

I’m not very good at strangling. Never know when to blow the whistle. I get faked out easy. They laugh at me. Don’t… Don’t… think that. I’ve tried. I’ve tried strangling them. They went and put me out back and forced me to practice on pigs. Fuckers can kick; got thick necks; got nasty hooves; and dirt and shit’s their friend. I was shivering and cold and covered in shit. I had prints on me. “Strangle ‘em, skinny bitch! Get them hogs! Go on!” Thick necks, though. Pigs have thick necks. Their blood stinks. It stinks bad, like rats and shit and human sweat. “Them taste good, bitch! Get you one! Ho ho, now! Don’t be shy!” I got a stick and broke it and stabbed and stabbed and… and blood was everywhere. On the grass and the snow and the tree and the damn axe against the damn tree. And I picked up the axe. I’m not stupid. I got me an axe, and them pigs squealed and yelped but their hooves weren’t no axes, no… not axes, no match… but I can’t… I didn’t… I just lay down and stared at the axe, and I was butcherin’ in my mind, and there was more blood, and blood, and… and human blood, and those fuckers and their heads… not on their bodies. No. No, in my hand, and in pots, and stewin’ and burstin’… their eyeballs boiled to eggs, floating over their damn heads with their hair floatin’ around ‘em and just glistening with blood and spinning all wildly like they could swim; like they was alive, and were getting back, were going to jump out the damn pot and their nasty little tendrils were going to strangle me and – fuck – fuck fuck fuck… I… I don’t know how old I am. My arms are broke. I don’t know how old I am, and my arms broke. Both gone to shit. I can’t move ‘em. I can’t even feel ‘em. Squealin’ and shit flyin’ an’ thick necks rolling all around me and my arms are goddamn broke. I can’t hold that damn axe now. It’s covered in blood anyway – as if… it’s like I held it. It’s like I killed them. There’s blood for them all here. There’s plenty for the damn bastards and their pigs. I can’t hear them laughing now; the pigs of the pigs, those fuckers. They got skinny necks, really. Compared to pigs. I don’t have arms, but I could still bite, dammit. They better not come out here. No. Their blood’s all over me. They won’t. They’re all dead. I ain’t boiled their heads… No, no… No… Just killed them all… All fucking fuckers fuck… fuck… Haha… Duck duck… duck… duck…

duck… duck…

goose.

-------

I hate breathing. Only things that can kill you will breathe all over every damn thing. Like they own it. They can breathe on it – yeah, yeah why not – they’ll breathe their goddamn ugly selves all into a goddamned frenzy, huffin’ and wheezin’ and shit. Bastards breathe. But it makes ‘em easy to find. If it breathes, it can die… No… No, I don’t breathe. I’m quiet, like those little brown scaly monsters that’ll crawl all up over anything – especially sticky stuff. Especially blood. Silent, blood lickin’, boot-proof monsters. They don’t even waste their time trying to stomp ‘em out any more. And me – just like them. They can grind up their damn heels to bone, they ain’t gettin’ me that way. Fuck. FUCK. “Sit still, skinny bitch. I’m-a tan your damn face shut if you make a single sound, ya little – “ FUCK. GOD SHIT FUCK DAMMIT AH… Ah… duck duck duck, fucker… I’m just biding my time… Tapping your ugly shitfaces one after another… tapping them light, like a damn feather… just irritating, ain’t I? Fuckers. Tap, tap. Just you wait – ah – FUCK FUCK FUCK uh… uh… I’ll be tapping you soon, shithead…

“heh…”

“what wush that, skinny bitch? Think I’m all funny shit, huh? I’ll show you something, you whore… yeah… yeah, I’m goin’ to show you somethin’, all right… ”

------

It ain’t so hard, watchin’ little things die. I’ve cut up my piglets an’ all that… They don’t get all upset with you neither. They’re just quiet. They don’t look at you with fear… they understand. They got big damn eyes, the littler things. They ain’t made for finding danger… No… They just sparkle all over, get all glistening and wise lookin’… They got eyes for dying, eyes for understanding, eyes wide for necessity. They want you to kill ‘em, if it’s the right thing… things are born caring creatures. Born to die early; and that failing, they get all toughed up and their eyes get narrower… get old enough, and they start breathing… start becoming fuckers… best for ‘em to die, mostly… they can’t live to be… anything that way. Best to not be anything.

------

Blood hasn’t ever bothered me. Nah. I can stomach all of it. It ain’t scary or anything – no – no, it’s good when there’s blood. Means the scary shit’s done and over. Some fuckers… they’ll get all puky when there’s blood around. They’re stupid, those ones. Not worth much. Their eyes ain’t wide enough for understandin’, and ain’t narrow enough for stayin’ alive. They’re dead on the outside, and their guts just can’t wait to jump ship…

“oh that’s just it! … gonna get that bitch now… she done it fer the last time.”

Good for nothing. Dead on the outside. Just waitin’ to get their faces stabbed up and their eyes cut open. They’ll just turn around, right into a goddamned death trap… it’s not ‘cause of their eyes, really… they turn around ‘cause they can’t look, but it’s not because of their eyes… they turn around blind because their body’s ready to die. Inside their head, they’re just tryin’ to catch up. When they see all that blood, like they got inside themselves, they just can’t reconcile… so they make themselves up and go out to die. Ain’t nothin’ else they can turn to, now… nothing’s true for them except death, ‘cause it’s all they can’t dare to think about.

They don’t bleed like the others, either. Their blood don’t sputter or squirt or none of that. It jus’ sticks to them, like it ain’t got no life to get away from. Sticks to them and grows out of ‘em. Spreads all the fuck over them – tries to strangle ‘em, if it can, if they won’t just end it themselves…