The Chosen Few
Bev Vines-Haines
Dorsal Winner

I am aware my behavior is reviled.  I am also aware I see and hear and understand in a blessed and supernatural way.  It is difficult for the chosen.  We are often instructed to do things others would never have the courage to do.

I was, unfortunately, born of a woman.  They say we all are.  I have my doubts.  Certainly, in a perfect world, no man would pass through woman flesh, defiled from his first breath.  I am repulsed by female forms.  Their loose, unmuscled limbs, flabby (some say soft) skin and weak frames literally make me sick. 

My mother claimed she loved me, when she came in from the bars, when she was sober, when she wasn't rolling about on her bed with some bozo she drug in off the streets.  I watched her grow old, saw the light grow dim in her eyes, the skin sag and wrinkle on her hands and arms, saw that arrogance and pride begin to fade.

Still she thought she owned me, telling me to bring this, carry that, cook her favorites morning, noon and night.

She was as ghastly as her kind can get, bossy, strident, always always right! I never put a hand upon her, no matter how I longed to do just that.  At night I would lie in my bed and picture all kinds of scenarios.  Electrical cords dancing in her bath water as she twitched and screamed and moaned.  Cigarettes ground out in that fat, deep flesh around her belly.  I imagined how delightful it would be to close her in the freezer and giggle at her muffled screams for help.  I created detailed visions of pouring gasoline all over her bed as she issued her endless commands at me.  And then, in a most dramatic fashion I would produce a match, strike it and toss it at her satin throne.

And there I dwelt, night and day, lost in a fantasy of revenge.  I made virtual movies right inside my head and laughed uproariously at her varied forms of death.

Imagine my surprise when they arrested me.  It seems some villain stole my very thoughts, plucked them right out of my head.  This fiend, perhaps as tortured as I, gave life to all my dramas, performing each skilled act night after night.  As I did picture, he did do.  Throughout my very neighborhood he struck one hideous woman after another. 

Oh so well deserved, vile creatures! 

But it was not me.  I did not do it.  I did but imagine it should be and so it was.  Perhaps this fiend is but a hand fulfilling each wish of the chosen.  


First published: November, 2012
© All rights reserved by the writer
Comments to the writer:
doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com