I talk

I talk. I’m good at talking. Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve known how to twist words in my favor, how to make my parents believe it was Tommy who broke all the crayons, that Jenny was by herself when she fell off the bridge and into the river.

-

And you listen. Why not? You’re alone, bitter, drunk. One too many bad days and one too many mistakes left you far past stable.

You had bought a gun that day. You weren’t sure who it was for.

“The world sucks” You say. It’s one of the few things you’ll agree with in the beginning.

“I know.” I reply. “And here’s what we’re going to do about it.”

-

I’ve always had a vision. Even when I was young, I always knew what I had come here to achieve. Every night when Daddy would yell, when Mommy would drink and hide in a corner, it only affirmed my beliefs.

I could see the broken bone of the world. I understood the plague of humanity. I knew what must be done. We were the mistake, we needed to be eradicated.

And that’s what I told you, during the endless night of broken dreams and broken glasses. I ranted. I raved. I let the words tumble out of my mouth and into your ignorant ears, poisoning you slowly with the truth.

Well. Not all of it. I had to break things down into bite sized chunks, I needed to spoon feed you my ideas.

-

Not that I blame you for your trouble understanding. At least you didn’t try too hard to fight it. By the end of the month, I didn’t even have to lock the basement door any longer.

I admit, I took awhile. You were my first attempt, I was still figuring things out. But by the time I finished with you, I had it mastered. I had you mastered. And you were so loyal.

“The world is broken.” I would remind you, after I had put away my knuckle wraps and you were past sobbing.

“And it is up to us to fix it.” You would mumble in reply, spitting your blood onto the floor. I was proud.

--

But eventually, it is no longer enough. Having you on my side is good, perhaps even great, but it is not enough.

“How can we achieve our purpose with only the two of us?” When I ask that, I didn’t think you were listening. Actually, I thought you were unconscious. But you did hear me. And you bring them to me.

Little angry boys and girls, freshly churned out from the writhing mass of bitterness in the world. They’re all eager to pour their woes to the unassuming girl at the bar, the one with a friendly smile and a wandering eye. You grab their hands and pull them home.

You break them into a million beautiful pieces, and you bring them to me to put back together exactly how I want. Like a cat.

And put them back together I do. By the time they stumble out of our home, they’re part of our family. We take the poor, the rich, the weak, the brave, and make them into something better. Something beautiful. I fill them with the Truth and eventually they’re chomping at the bit to spread the word

“The world is a broken bone!” They shout. “It is up to us to fix it!”

The media calls them terrorists. I call them my children.

-

I believe you get jealous. Sometimes, when I fix a particularly beautiful mess, you slam me against the wall and take over the control, try to hurt me in the only way you think you can. You pant your love in my ear even as I bleed on the floor. And I let you.

I don’t love you, but it’s no secret that you’ve always been my favorite.

-

There’s no name for us, my children, not just yet. I fix person after person, but it still isn’t enough. I need to reach more, I need to tell more.

And once again, you come through for me. I’m so glad you were my first.

You come to me with a camera. A camera and a website where I can be heard, where we can spread. It’s perfect.

You don’t want to be in it. Not yet, you say. And I understand. So I turn it on, I face the lense, and I smile.

“So.” I begin. “Hello.”

Author's Note

This was after my friend and I decided I would only make a youtube channel to start a cult. Then I read fight club and didn't get enough sleep. Things... escalated

Reviews

[Vian]

That was beautiful. I kind of wish it was a novel. I could imagine this too be a real book, the kind I would find on a dusty second hand shop shelf. The kind that's kinda faded and worn, read and consumed. I feel like I could do something. The world is broken and honestly it is only a matter of time before someone does decides to try and fix it. I really love this. Thank you very much for writing this. Will it escalate again? I would love more!