The Touch

The Touch

Length: 647 words (1.8 double-spaced pages)

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Today I'm going to kill something. Someone. Anything. I feel the
obligation to, that time has come around again. Every fortnight it is.
Two weeks later and another person will be lucky, just like that. They
will have been touched by a celebrity. They do not thank me for it,
they do not get the chance but I will leave my autograph by their
side. Something for the pigs to ponder about when they arrive on the
scene. But by then it will be too late.

I know you are wondering what it is. Something like that would
intrigue you. You will see soon enough but I can tell you now, I will
stretch to that much at least. I leave a little gift you see? Nothing
too big mind you, I just remove two things from them and leave it by
their side, wristwatch and eyeball. Not a delicate manoeuvre mind you.
But always worth it, gives the whole procedure an elaborate touch. I
always like to keep my eye on the time. Never been late in my life. I
thought of that little signature when I was at school, not that I
needed school in the first place. I just went there to do the usual,
squash a few flies, keep my name on the list, have a little time away
from home. I used to put the little autograph everywhere, not the real
thing of course, but as I breathed out talent on the window I would
scratch it in or I would etch it into a desk. The next person sitting
there would notice it, I just wish they would notice me.

I kept to myself at school, not that I had any choice, the other
little brats would not come anywhere near me. They knew I was too
clever for them and the poor ones who thought they could overpower me
knew where to go; they would be kissing my feet. I could have changed
the world if somebody had let me, but I do not need to be given a
chance on a plate to do so.

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Today I am going to do it. By myself.

I look around the scrawny flat. It is a tip and always has been. I see
the goldfish bowl on the floor and pick it up. I stare in and look at
the little blighter. It hasn't been fed in about a week, it did not
deserve it. What does it do for me? All it does is swim around in it's
own little world and I am sick of it. I swish it around and it bashes
against the sides. This is good. I sense the panic within the bowl and
decide to put it out of it's misery. I pour it rapidly into the bog.
It swims around, and gets accompanied to it's surroundings. Flush.
It's gone. A smile creeps around my face. I know I'm ready.

There is a tense atmosphere in the flat now, I claw for the cat but it
steams off. She knows I am a genius, a superstar, a God. There's
nothing that can stop me. I pull the phone off the hook and stab in
the number to the local radio station. They tell me I will be on air
in a few minutes and I stamp my foot impatiently. I'm on. I tell the
man he's talking to a superstar and that...he cuts me off. I slam the
phone back down, this has infuriated me. Nobody ever takes notice. But
they will after today. I take out the bread-knife and emerge from the
front door.

I walk down the dull grey road. It is just one of those days today, an
ordinary, boring day. Mondays are always the same, everybody hates
them. I know you are close now. Still, the clouds overhead glare at me
like great monsters, reaching out to get a piece of me. Everybody
wants to get a piece of me. I am a God after all. I play with the
knife in my trouser pocket, it makes me feel so solid, people look at
me strangely as I walk down the street. They obviously think they have
known me from somewhere before.

Suddenly the World brightens up, everything around me glitters. A
phenomenal rush runs through my body, I've seen you . There you are,
ready to write another of your stories. You sit there all pretentious
in your office but I know you will be out soon. I grab a paper from
the stand and read another one of your successes. Front page this
time. Soon your name will be on the front page for another reason.

I stare a hole through the words you write. They are like poetry, like
another language. Shakespearean or something. I would not know,
English was not really my strong point. Well, you won't be getting the
front pages any more, soon they'll realise I am the one they should
have been writing about all along. I check my watch again. You never
thought time could be such a precious thing but your eye will be
forever upon it now. The demon from within me remains strong and will
always seek justice. I imagine gauging through your precious make-up,
scraping your skin, severing your organs and slowly grabbing the life
away from you. Another smile emerges on my face and the sky becomes so
light I cannot see, but it's not the sky that produces the glow. It's
you. The dark clouds fade away to reveal your stunning figure
advancing ahead of me. I touch your arm.
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