Killing is fun

I could just kill somebody. I wanted to put my hands across someone's neck and just wring it and throttle the living daylights out of them. But what difference would it make. Would it reverse what had already happened. Those days when I could have my way were a distant memory. I didn't care less now, cause I had more pressing problems on my head. I wasn't loved enough. Yes, I wasn't loved enough. I needed more love in my life. Where was all the love in the world when I needed it. Didn't people realise that to get something back you need to give something. If they didn't give me love, why would I be with them? I, the princess of darkness, the queen of sunshine, the biggest bitch that ever lived, the gem of this earth. Me, who was every woman a man wanted and every woman aspired to be. I was myself.
Hence, I desperately want to kill someone. I wanted to see my fingers lined with red pieces of flesh. I wanted to see somebody writhe in front of me. I just wanted to see someone suffer the way I was suffering, all because I couldn't be loved. Had I ever thought I could be deserving this kind of treatment. Naah, surely not me. But then, I didn't pay attention to that crippled beggar who wanted nothing but a mere rupee. And I had screamed at my mother who woke me up so lovingly in the morning. Me, who lied and then swore by my father to defend that lie. May be this was all part of some joke played on me by the only woman above me, Mother Nature. Anyway, I had to think of a master plan to get out of this rut. I had to start afresh.

I do not love you except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire
I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly
In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.

Pablo Neruda's verse rang true in my head and I wondered if I had lost it. I think I had. It was that feeling of deja vu all over again. Could I actually be suffering from a mid-life crisis at the tender age of 24. I had seen dead rats in better shape than me. Was I actually capable of anything at all.
There, it was done. I had killed him. Where was I going to hide the body. I never thought he would be that heavy. I looked at the dead body and saw him smile. Where was I going to dump this heavy, stinking, rotting, yet smiling piece of crap. I had no clue what I could do. I was scared now. I had to work my way through this. Isn't that what life was all about. Networking. Public relations. It's the right way of getting things done. You spend your childhood trying to bag the snazziest plaything. You spend your adolescence trying to be popular. You work you twenties trying to find someone to love and who loves you back and the rest of your life trying to hang on to them. For a woman, its even tougher to find someone who would be addicted to her. Men suffer from commitment phobia, along with admitting he loves you phobia, and then letting you go if he doesn't phobia. Woman suffer from a different kind of phobia, letting themselves be treated well phobia. I had to leave now. For once, I had to be treated well. I opened the door and saw the newspaper on my mat. I picked it up and tossed it on the dead body. Let him read it. He had always been more interested in the world than me.