Maniacal

A breeze blew in through the opened curtains and into the darkened room. Newspaper clippings and bills lay disorganized. The place hadn't been cleaned in quite sometime. Ever since the male who owned it had caught his wife in bed with another man. This man now sat next to the open window with a lit cigarette and a bottle of whiskey. He stands, pulling a cord and with a clicking sound, lights up the room.

The Man plopped back down looking at a photo of a woman and three children. The photo was worn and town around the edges. One tare went to the Wife's cornea. She was a wonderful blond. In the picture she wore a summer dress with pink flowers, it suited her well. The three children looked like your average kids. Four, twelve, and sixteen. None of them looked like the husband, and this had always been strange to him, but now it made sense. This made the Man hate his family even more, and he knew it was wrong because it wasn't his kids fault. He didn't care. His wife should have had an abortion.

Lifting the whiskey bottle to his throat he swallowed the last bit of whiskey and threw the bottle across the room. It smashed into the wall and shattered into a million pieces. He smiled. The Man looked back toward the photo, "I worked and worked for you. For twenty-five mother fuckin' years I worked my ass off, and you leave me for some Joe blow, brown nosing, cock sucking, piece of shit from Florida." He took the burning cigarette from his mouth and held it to the photo, slowly blowing until the picture caught fire. "Fuckin' Cunt." He whispered under his breath.

He walks out of the room, and out the back door, stepping over pizza boxes and old ravioli cans. He had been living like an animal the past few months. The Man hadn't even taken the trash out, or washed a single dish. Casually he walks back though the backdoor and into the shed located close by. Once inside he starts to move old boxes out from a high shelf. He almost needed a ladder. Dust had settled over every inch of the small shed, and it took everything he could just to get to the back to look for what he just found. He pulled out a long suit-case and opened it. Inside lays an M16 assault rifle. A grin came upon the mans face. "Blah blah blah, this is fuckin' illegal she said," The Man said scoffing at her, "I'll show her illegal she'll never fuckin' forget." He finished that sentence with a clip in the gun, and putting two more clips in his pocket. The Man had been fantasying about this day for quite some time now.

Grabbing the gun and changing his hand positions trying to get as comfortable as possible he makes his way to his rusty old truck in the midnight light. The Man threw the gun into the back of the truck, and jumped in the driver’s seat. The floor of the truck was a sea of wrappers; McDouble's, Whoppers, and French fry holders. He loved the taste of those greasy French fries, especially the just out of the fryer ones. Pushing threw them he found a CD case, and opened it looking for something to listen. This would probably be the last music he had ever heard. When he found the right song he chuckled, "This is perfect!", and it was. He had chosen "Never there" by Cake. Singing with the song the Man screamed the first line in a manically way "I need your arms around me,
I need to feel your touch! HA!"

When he got there he found it was extremely easy to make his way inside. The door was unlocked. Softly he sang the song he listened to in the car over and over again. His heart was beating so hard he could barely hear himself think. Putting his head to the door he could hear the couple talking,
"Baby, the clock is wrong. It says its nine minutes past one in the afternoon."
"Just leave it, we'll get a new one tomorrow." the Man's wife said rolling over.
"Yeah, I suppose you're right."

The Wife's lover starts toward the door when the Man kicks it in, making the Lover jump back into bed holding the Man's wife. The Man lets the gun fall against its strap which was around his shoulder. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. The smoke filled the room fast. "You know," He said, "I just don't think this is working out." He held the M16 up and pointed toward the Lover. He slowly pulled the trigger, and then Bang! Hit the Lover in the knee. He howled in agony. Once again the maniacal laugh overwhelmed the Man. "Hey, do you want to see her die?" The Man didn't even give the Wife's lover a chance to reply when another shot went off. Her body went limp and the Lover looked over and saw the blood rushing from her forehead.

"Oh my god! Please don't kill me, Have mercy!" the Lover was such a pathetic scrawny man. He didn't deserve to live. The Man gave him a grin and held the big M16 next to his head, took a big puff from his cigarette, and let the trigger go. Blood splattered the white sheets of their bed. The Lover went limp just as the Wife had.

He walked back to the kitchen and grabbed the first bottle he found. Vodka. He took a chug of it and sat down. His head was spinning. He leaned back against the counter, and sighed. "Fuck my life." He whispered. The sirens from police cruisers could be heard in the distance. Suddenly fear hit him. Why did he do this? He was going to go to jail, No, Prison. The worst prison. Fuck this. He pulled a small hand gun from the back of the belt and put it to his head. The maniacal laugh paid him a visit for the last time.