Hi there! I’m pretty sure I’ll regret this because we both follow you but whatever. See I have this friend. He’s the only one that knows certain things about me, but he will just spill them out to his friends. I know he means no harm but what do I do?
I would ideally like to address the part of your question which mentions ‘following’ me, first. Outside of the internet, I have very little control over who sees me. Be it through my floor length sash windows, looking out from my gardens, into my sexy boutique. Or when I lean over the pool boy, wearing my torn unmentionables, desperately thrusting at anything that moves.
Neither of these are situations I would like witnessed by sober eyes, and if you have seen them, they do not exist and it was probably that inconceivable bitch next door Stella, anyway. She has thrush. The pool boy told me.
Now, moving onto you.
These ‘certain things’ you mention seem to be deep dark secrets which you’ve carelessly told an awful loud-mouthed friend, and are now looking for a reason to kill him without the hippy moral compass of ‘being good’ weighing you down.
Well, you’ve come to the right place. If I can do anything, I can help you cover up murder. Let’s put you in the situation, first.
You see him in the distance. He’s surrounded by a handful of people, all laughing and animated as their arms fling in the air, exclaiming at whatever he’s just announced. You begin to move closer, but they’ve noticed you now. Transformed from animated to the reanimated; their lifeless corpses just stare at you as you move closer. You exchange pleasantries, but something has changed in them. Making excuses, they scurry away, leaving you alone with your friend.
‘You told them didn’t you?’, you ask, teeth clenched in anger as you fight back tears.
‘Yeah fukin’ hilarious man, dey loved it.’
You stare at him. Why did you confide in him? Why did you become his friend? You turn to look at the group, still walking away and the glint of Kurt’s blonde hair makes her quiver. It was for him. Turning back you look deep into your friend’s eyes.
‘I have something to show you’, you say. Your face has changed. You smile and move your body into his, slightly. He’s far from attractive, but you’ve caught him staring at you occasionally and desperate times… With hushed promises, you lure him back to yours. Your body is radiating with sexual energy, he mistakes for intercourse, but is from the desire to wrap his own intestines around his acne covered throat.
He waits for you in your bedroom, the lights turned off, the TV on – reruns of Location Location Location have immediately distracted him from anything outside of that lovely cottage in Oxfordshire.
You creep in. He’s there. You move closer. It’s okay, he’s there. You lift the large knife into the air. His skull will be difficult to penetrate, it will need to be his spinal cord.
You close your eyes, the screams are blinding. You can’t see anything, but it’s okay. He’s there.
Opening your eyes, you look at the floor. So much blood.
‘Maybe you should have put something down to catch it all?’ you wonder, but suddenly memory of the plan kicks into your head and you’re jolted towards his body as you grab his clothes, rip them off and throw them to the corner of the room. Before his body stiffens, you fold his legs over his head, and hold them there with rope.
You bring out your canvas, throw paint all over the walls, the floor, the TV, the ceiling. This installation will be your greatest piece.
As you sit there wrapping papier-mâché around your friend’s contorted body, you wonder if this installation will win you an award? In a house, in London, you’ve created one of the greatest social commentaries this century and the irony will fall short for everyone. Your last laugh.
You grab the knife and kneel on the floor, in front of Kirsties Allsop’s distorted face. You slide the knife gently into your stomach. The sharp pain brings you back for a moment as you look around and scream at the horror, before falling loudly to the floor.
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