the Mug

The mug seemed to shatter before it ever made contact with his head. By the time it got there it was in shards, and those shards embedded themselves in his skull.

The satisfaction was what took me by surprise. I'd imagined shattering the mug over his head dozens of times, but the intense satisfaction I felt as each piece drove itself further into him was something I hadn’t been expecting.

He lost consciousness instantly. When I realized this, I was disappointed. I'd wanted more time to savor the fear on his face, the same fear he had taken the time to enjoy on mine.

But even amidst my disappointment, I was mesmerized by the blood coming from the wounds on his head. I was always surprised by how viscous blood was. It moved slower than the watery substance I'd envisioned. There was a trail leading from each of the shards, and as they made their way down his face they joined, then separated again. By the time all the strands had made their way to his chin, an elaborate pattern had formed.

I watched it come together and was fascinated. This wonderful mosaic was more worthwhile than anything he had ever done in life. I stood back, admiring my masterpiece, proud of what I’d done. I then lit a cigarette, walked into the other room and sat pondering out the window. Tucson is becoming a bore.