12.6.2005 kl. 16:32


Ég var að róta í gömlu drasli og fann eldgamlan geisladisk með alls konar skjölum frá því að ég var 14-15 ára gamall, þ.á.m. smásögu sem ég skrifaði á þeim tíma. Þetta er alveg hræðilega embarassingly fyndið. Hérna kemur síðasti hlutinn á henni, þegar aðalpersónan kemur heim til konunnar sinnar eftir næturrölt:

"What's the matter, darling?" she says to me in a sleepy voice. She seems concerned, but it's only an act. I know it for sure. In reality she has grown to despise me because I am no longer a worker, no longer a member of the great hive, and our money has almost run short.

I turn the chainsaw on. This alarms her. I get the satisfaction of seeing a brief look of fear wash over her face.

"...darling?" she utters.

I thrust the chainsaw into her face. She screams but the sound is soon muffled as her flesh is torn asunder by the sharp teeth of my newly aquired machine. I continue to stick the chainsaw into her. I feel my clothes becoming drenched with her blood. Suddenly I hear sirens in the distance. Yes, the police always comes quickly when the disturbance is in a nice white suburban neighbourhood. How did they get to know of it so soon? The neighbours?

For a moment I contemplate going over their house to render unto them the same fate as that of my wife, but I think the better of it. I see only one option open to me. I throw the blood-stained chainsaw on the floor. The casing of the engine breaks with a snap. So much for my Raisenhof Quality Chainsaw. I rush into our bedroom. It's all so nice and perfect. The perfect rug, the perfect lamps, the perfect drawers and the perfect furniture. It infuriates me.

The sirens are getting closer, I can hear them clearly now. I reach for the top drawer of my wardrobe. Hidden among the socks is the American's Right to Defend Himself. My fingers lock around a hard steel object. That's it. I pull out the handgun. The sirens are outside my house now. I can hear the footsteps of men approaching the house. My house.

The footsteps stop in the doorway. I hear someone say "Oh, my God!". I'm sure that what I did to my wife offended his burgeoise sensitivities. I stare at the piece in my hand and for I brief moment I wonder whether I am to use it upon the intruders or myself. It's an easy decision.

Haha, já. What a sick little bastard I was...

2 comments have been posted
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Aðalsteinn | 12.6.2005 kl. 19:29

Þetta er stórkostlegur texti!

Árni | 12.6.2005 kl. 23:01

"I thrust the chainsaw into her face."

Hló mikið og dátt, uppáhaldslínan mín forever.