SNAPPED pt. 1
Everyone has a breaking point. But once you reach that point, there's no going back until something is done about it. Let's say you're worried your wife is cheating on you. You tell yourself you're fine, that it's all in your head. After all, you don't have any concrete evidence. But deep down you know it's true. You start to lash out at everyone: co-workers, friends, The Bitch herself. They'll try to talk to you, ask, “Hey, what's going on? You've been snapping at everyone lately. Everything O.K. at home?” But you haven't even come close to snapping yet. You won't snap until you come home to your whore wife and Bob, her co-worker she swore was “just a friend”, fucking in your marital bed. You'll walk away with the calm that only comes over someone who's truly snapped. The wives that freak out and dismember their husband's pecker after catching him with his secretary haven't actually snapped. That's more like a fit of rage. You'll grab your 12 gauge from the hall closet and smoke both of them without any time for a rebuttal, explanation, or pleading. They made their bed, and now they'll lie in it for the short remainder of their lives.
I've had my fair share of fits. I've broken dishes, punched holes into the walls, and once took a baseball bat to everything in my old apartment. A shrink might say I snapped, that I have “anger problems”. And the latter may be true, but the emotions I felt then were anger and hatred. I felt nothing when I truly snapped, no joy and not even remorse for what I had done.
* * * * * *
Before the incident I had thought about my mother's (Donna’s) death frequently: ways I wish she would die, ways I wanted to watch her die. I wholeheartedly hated the woman. But it wasn't until right before I snapped that I started thinking about killing her. You may argue that makes it “premeditated”, but it's important that you understand the differences in my state of mind (or lack thereof) before, during, and after I lost it.
My mother and I never got along. As a child I was completely ignorant to how vile of a person she really is. Once I became a teenager and her true self became more and more obvious, I couldn't even live with the woman for more than a few months. But I still accepted her for who she was: trash. It was what it was, she's still my mother, blah blah blah. But as a human I could only take so much. And just when I thought she couldn't be any more vile, she surprised me yet again. My fragile human psyché couldn't take anymore, and I snapped.
* * * * * *
The day started just like any other. I had recently lost my job and had to move back with Donna. It wasn't long until she got a job, and I was happy for her. But it didn't take long for her boyfriend, who never came home before 9, to start coming back shortly after she left at noon. Him and I had our differences (her word for it) in the past. He once took pictures of me sleeping in a t-shirt and underwear, and send them to my father. God only knows what he did with them in his spare time. He had also liked to text me about watching me sleep “in my teeny tiny underwear”, walking back and forth to get “another peek”. Last time I moved back home I showed Donna these texts. She was understandably disgusted and threw him out. It was only two days until he was back.
This would become a common occurrence with Donna and her man. He would act inappropriately, and she would “kick him out” just so he could come back within a day or two. So when he started coming home early all of a sudden I knew where it was headed, and I knew telling her would solve nothing. I would tell myself, as long as he doesn't touch me, I can just let it go.
But I couldn't really let it go. Everyday he would expose himself to me, put his hands on my hips to walk behind me when he had plenty of room to get by. I tried convincing myself, it's no big deal it could be worse. But it was eating me away inside.
For months I kept my mouth shut. If I told Donna she wouldn't do anything about it, as usual, and I'd be risking getting kicked out myself. She couldn't lose her meal ticket, so I endured it. Until the day he took it too far.
* * * * *
I didn't just snap after he raped me, I fucking shattered. He didn't leave the house after he was done with me. He stayed in their room next to the bathroom (which doesn't have a lock on the door, of course) to intimidate me. Calling the police never even crossed my mind. I just had to get into the bathroom.
I sat on the floor and cried for five hours until Donna got home. I couldn't bring myself to even look at the bed where it happened, let alone sit on it. I whimpered and shook every time I heard him walk by my door, his footsteps echoing in my ears. As soon as I heard the front door close at 5 o'clock, I bolted for the bathroom. I frantically looked through the medicine cabinet and closet. Looking for what? I wasn't sure until I found it: the bottle of Clorox under the sink. It felt like I was moving in molasses, my arms weighed a hundred pounds. I already had the douche bottle in my hand and was emptying it out until I was consciously aware of my plan.
After a few tries, I finally filled the bottle with Clorox and took off my clothes. I sat down on the toilet, the cold seat making me jump. I started shaking as I opened my legs, knowing I was about to feel violated all over again. I inserted the nozzle and squeezed the bottle. The burn from the bleach was instant. My eyes watered, I started crying again. The pain brought me back to earlier that day, but it also felt cleansing. I continued to douche with the bleach until the bottle was empty.
Standing up from the toilet, my knees were shaking so badly I dropped to my hands. The tub wasn't far so I crawled the rest of the way. I turned on the hot water and poured in the rest of the bleach. I braced myself for the pain, but getting into that tub was worse than I thought. I wasn't prepared for every orifice, scrape, and hair follicle to burn like I was dipped in acid. I expected to look down and see my skin melting off. But the pain distracted me from the pain I had inside of me. It brought me out of the catatonic-like state I was in and back to reality. The sick reality that Donna's boyfriend raped me, and there was nothing I could do about it. But that was going to change.
Looking back, I can think of a million excuses for why I bleached away all of the evidence and didn't go to the cops. I was traumatized, broken, humiliated, embarrassed, too emotionally fragile. But the truth is that I wanted to get revenge. I'd be damned if I let Donna and her boyfriend make me a victim.
* * * * * *
Growing up I always hated living in the middle of nowhere. None of my friends were within walking distance. Being surrounded by woods, I often went to sleep listening to a rabbit being chased and killed by a fox or coyote. Sure, that's just nature, and finding what remained of the carcasses didn't bother me. It was their screams that sound like a child or woman screaming for their life. It didn't matter if it was the first time or millionth time. Those screams always sent a chill down my spine and gave me nightmares. The only good thing about that house was no annoying neighbors for at least a mile, especially on that day.
I started dinner early, taking my time to make it perfect. I needed them to eat every single bite. I brought out the ketamine I had been stockpiling for months. Looks like I'll have to find another way to enjoy Coachella this year. I mixed all five grams into my homemade mashed potatoes, something I knew they would enjoy, and not leave a single bite of.
The ketamine took effect quicker than I thought, about thirty minutes. As soon as they were passed out I duct taped their ankles and torso to their chairs, and taped their wrists together behind their backs. I tried not to overdo their bindings; I needed access to their bodies, but I needed them to be secure.
After they were secured to their chairs I noticed my adrenaline was rushing and I felt sick to my stomach. Am I really going to do this? It isn't too late to turn back, they won't even remember any of this. Then I heard Donna moan as she started to come out of her k-hole. The longer I looked at her, the angrier I became. It was her fault that little cunt raped me. If she had gotten rid of him any of the numerous times he was inappropriate with me, this never would have happened. But instead she gave him a free pass the very first time he got away with it. He kept pushing the limit to see if she would stop him. She might as well have told him it was okay to rape me, she'd just act stupid and ignorant to the whole thing, as usual. I know that if I had gone to the cops, she would've given him an alibi. And if they presented her with physical evidence, she would renege on the alibi. But go on to tell them what a slut I am, that he was vulnerable, and I took advantage of him!
That last realization was what did it for me. My fear turned into rage. Donna groaned again, louder this time, and started to open her eyes. I couldn't even focus on the cunt next to her, my rage had tunnel vision. A Boeing 747 could crash down on our front yard and I wouldn't have noticed.
I took the box of toothpicks out of the cabinet and pushed one under her fingernail. Her eyes popped open, practically bulging out of their sockets. She didn't scream or yell, I'm not sure if she was even able to, but the toothpick definitely sobered her up a little. I pushed the toothpick in further, and further until it snapped. Blood dripped off her fingertip. I moved on to the next finger and went slower this time. Donna's eyes were watering. She was moaning and loudly groaning, but couldn't scream or form coherent sentences yet.