The rage builds up in my body, tingling down my palms into my fingers. They curl into claws. I fight to keep the heat from my face. I force my eyes to stay open and accepting. My breathing threatens to speed, but I deepen the breaths and count them into even spaces. I will not pant. I know my chest is heaving now, but I am not panting.
The bile churns in my stomach and I can almost taste it in the back of my throat. I stand, feet shoulder-width apart, hands curled at my side and don’t scream the words that want to leap from my throat and lash the woman with the shoulder-length hair.
Her hair curls at the ends and the curls bob as she laughs. It’s a vile, hateful sound that grates on my ears. She tosses her hair over her shoulder with a practiced move that leaves a tracer to my eyes. Her “perfect” grace makes me want to rend her fingers from her hands. She rests her hand on the top of her purse. It’s an expensive thing – Coach or Prada or some overly-charged piece of crap like that. Perfect, like her hair, the length of her wheat colored skirt and her charming chocolate jacket.
Her skin is flawless, just waiting for me to paint it with purple and green. Her fingernails are glossy with fresh enamel. Her shoes are just the right height for the current fashion. Brown croc-leather with little gold buckles on the front. As though she were a model in an office-wear catalog. She has a little hoop earrings in her ears. And there’s a silk scarf around her throat. That’s good. The silk won’t break when I wrap it around her wrists after I throw her to the ground and ruin her perfect suit.
I track her motion as she and her girlfriends part ways. She has her keys out and is heading for the car park. I make my feet move now. Slowly, carefully, don’t make any noise. I reach for the rag in its Ziploc bag. She’ll regret her stupid heels any minute now.
I hold the rag over her mouth, smearing her perfect lipstick. She struggles and manages to connect with my sternum, trying to steal my air. I press harder against her mouth and nose. She slumps into my arms.
That hit will leave a bruise!
God damn, I hate this bitch.
BitterSuites 