“Say your last prayer, Marge” Simeon said to me, his gun trained at my head. I looked across the table to Phillip, who was prepared to leave at all costs.
I reached for my fork, sliced into my waffles, noting how it had gone from sickly sweet to cottony blandness, my tongue caressed its lover like sandpaper on wood.
“This bitch!!” Simeon said a bit too loudly, and I started to believe that if he had wanted to kill me, he would’ve done so already. I made my act much more believable, reaching across the table to steal rashers from Phillip’s plate. Phillip stared at me as though my hair was burning.
I looked up at Simeon mid bite and offered him a waffle. He looked stunned and a deep laughter unfurled in my belly.
It reached out like flames, then like pins and needles of ice pricking the back of my eyes. I reached for the glass of orange juice and caught my wild reflection, the laughter frothed behind my lips while my face stayed cool as marble.
Somewhere I heard Phillip begging, for me. Simeon had trained the gun at him, perhaps teasing me into a beg. I reached down for my fork, then discarded it, deciding to use my fingers.
The shot was loud, a bit too loud. It shattered through Phillips scared brain and kissed the glass beside him. That’s when I broke.
Keeling over with laughter, I stared deadly into his eyes as the blood gurgled out of his head, spilling over the soft knives that were lashes on his eyes.
I laughed and laughed, raising a middle finger in defiance to Simeon. When the Angel of death comes, when Azrael comes, he’ll find me waiting.
Simeon’s fingers twitched and I remember being warmed by my blood then cold.