Surely you knew I was going to do something to silence you one day?
People have doubted me my entire life, but how you treated me went beyond that. You tormented me. Was the pain and misery you caused fun for you? You were meant to be there for me. Thick and thin, remember? Us against the world.
If I told you my plan for today, I know exactly what you’d say
You don’t have the balls to go through with it.
But here we are.
My racing heart thumps in my throat. My breathing is so fast I’m feeling dizzy. The adrenaline surging through my body is like nothing I’ve experienced before.
You called me,
Meek.
Soft.
Scared.
And before today, I believed you.
I hold the scalpel delicately between my shaky fingers, my eyesight focused like I’m looking through a rifle scope. Your pale, cracked lips frame my field of vision. Only a black nothingness exists outside of your mouth.
I pinch the tip of your tongue. It feels slimy as I grip it tightly, holding it steady.
Try telling me how stupid I am now.
Your warm breath lightly touches my hand. Your attempt to speak makes me giggle. The unintelligible gibberish comforts me in knowing that after today your words can no longer affect me.
I begin.
I watch the razor thin edge begin to slice through the side of your tongue. Small, smooth strokes of the blade carefully start to shear the appendage from your body.
I’ll give you credit. You don’t flinch. You don’t cry out in pain.
How far could I have gotten in life if not for your words dragging me down? How happy could I have been?
I hold the tension on your tongue and the wound opens further. The portion within my fingers is now at a right angle to the remaining part within your mouth. Blood flows freely from both freshly exposed surfaces. The nail beds of my fingers turn white as they grip the cheap plastic handle, its textured surface compromised by the slippery claret covering it.
I cut through the last remaining sliver of flesh and hold your tongue in my hand. It’s hard to believe that this flaccid muscle possessed such a honed edge, like the scalpel I disposed of in the bathroom sink.
Your verbal cuts would vary, from thousands of shallow wounds, to others that sliced deeply enough they felt like they could eviscerate organs.
I rinse my trophy in the bloodied sink and drop the dismembered tongue into the mason jar. It now soaks in formaldehyde instead of the poisonous spit that fills your mouth. I watch your tongue swim around as I swirl the clear liquid.
The world is silent.
I showed you, didn’t I?
My adrenaline has been exhausted and my stomach churns as only the dizziness remains. I cry; tears for an apology that will never depart your lips. The apology I need, I deserve.
My sadness is fleeting as it gives way to contentment and another unfamiliar feeling.
I feel my shoulders lighten and I pull them back, standing up straighter. With the burden of facing a life of your relentless attacks now removed.
Pride. This is what that must feel like.
Bloodied smears cover the bathroom sink and I allow myself a moment to drag a finger through the sticky mess. I look into the mirror. My tired, red-rimmed eyes glare back at me.
I did it.
But as I smile at my reflection, twin crimson streams cascade down my chin and blood splashes across the sink.
You were expecting me to be impressed, weren’t you?
The smile fades, and I watch my eyes widen at the realisation.
Fucking idiot! My words are your words and I’m already inside your head.
I don’t need a tongue to damage you.
About the author
Mark battles impostor syndrome on a daily basis and just wants you to remember that he isn’t a bad guy…. he just enjoys writing about bad things. You can follow him on Twitter @MDRAY_AUTHORish