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Warning: This fiction is rated R for violence, language, and horror. Reader's discretion is advised.
I guess I'm walking back to my house. Not entirely sure why. Not entirely sure where I'm coming from, either. Must be the alcohol. I can't seem to feel my hands. There's a woman, walking her heafty self towards the same housing complex. Not entirely sure who she is. I can't seem to feel my fucking hands.
"Hey, you fat bitch." Who said that?
She turns and looks at me, surprised and almost hurt.
"Did you know obesity is 90% preventable?" Who the fuck is talking?
"Excuse me?" the woman says in my direction. What the fuck is going on?
"Bet you wish you could say that at the dinner table, eh? You should die, ya know? Kill yourself. The earth needs the nutrients." Oh, my God. I'm saying this. Why can't I stop?
"I don't want any trouble," she stammers, backing slowly away from me. I still can't feel my hands.
"Trouble," I shout and start to laugh. Fuck, stop this! "Trouble?! Take my advice. If you don't want any trouble, I suggest you refrain from screaming."
Now my arms notice the extra weight of my left hand. It's too late. My eyes catch a glimpse of a solid metal bat seconds before it connects with the woman's head. WHAT AM I DOING?! The sight of so much blood and gore makes the adrenaline silence the screaming in my head. What's left of her skull and face is in pieces on the parking lot. I'm beating her crippled dead body for as much blood I can handle. I drop the bat. I can feel myself start to come down as my bloodly gloved hand lights a cigarette. I soak my hands in lighter fluid, remove the gloves, and light them on fire. I drop them into a newspaper recycling bin near a curb. Must be trash day.
I take one last look at the dead woman and start to chuckle. As I walk away, I suddenly realize I probably don't live in one of these nice houses.
I am Jack's wasted life.
I'd like to thank the Academy...