Nails

 

I’m not very mechanical, but I try. I’d acquired some hardwood flooring pieces and was determined to make them into a simple bedside table for my room. My alarm clock had lived on my desk for far too long. So, on went the safety glasses, the dirty coveralls my brother loaned me and the crappy baseball t-shirt that I usually only wore on laundry day. I tied my hair up and dug a jigsaw, hammer and plastic container of nails out of one of two toolboxes we had stuffed in the garage. The pathetic excuse for a workbench would have to suffice for this project.

One problem: nails do not penetrate hardwood planks. “S**t!” I exclaimed, both inside my head and out of my mouth. I picked the hammer up, suddenly noticing the easy way it fit into my hands, and how good it felt. How easy would it be to kill with a hammer? It’s the perfect weapon. Everyone has one. Everyone has knives too, but knives require precision work. Hammers just need force. I stared around the garage. Almost any of these tools could be perfect murder weapons. I grinned. My problem of how to take care of the library a*****e had been solved.

I turned back to my pile of wood and reluctantly went off to search for our cordless drill and bits. It was, thankfully, charged. I eyeballed mostly all the measurements and took my sweet time sanding it. I debated mentally over whether or not to paint it, but decided that I could always paint later.

The man from the library drove an old blue Buick. I wrote down the license plate number and traced him to a small duplex just a few blocks away. I patrolled the neighborhood on my nights off of work for an escape route in the direction opposite my house. I found an opening into a canyon several blocks away. It would have to suffice. Time to shop.

I made my rounds in the largest hardware store nearby, knowing that the larger the store, the less chance of my being remembered. Half an aisle of hammers stared back at me. I picked half of them up, felt the way they sat in my hands, contemplated which type of grip fit best. I finally settled on a medium-sized one with a sturdy wooden handle. I also picked up a pair of safety glasses, a set of two handheld screwdrivers, duct tape and a package of razorblades. My excuse, if I was asked, was that I was moving into a new apartment and had forgotten some of my tools at the last one.

I was asked. My cashier’s name was Chris. “Stocking up on the basics?” He asked, attempting to strike up a conversation.

“Oh, I just accidentally left my old ones in my last apartment.” I smiled flirtatiously at the twenty-something male. “It’s better to have them lying around than to have to run out and get ‘em when I need ‘em.”

“Every woman should have tools.” He agreed.

I handed him enough cash to cover the cost and moved on after exchanging polite goodbyes. As soon as I was outside, I rolled my eyes and sighed heavily. This whole thing was going to take too long.

The next week, I skipped my last two classes of school and broke into the old man’s duplex. Older people usually have pictures of family hanging on the walls or sitting in frames on the table. He had one frame standing on a bedside table. In it, there was a picture of himself, I guessed, as a boy, with a fishing pole. This man is truly very lonely. I thought, behind my mask and safety glasses. Oh well. I thought, as I tipped his bed over and sent it crashing into a wall. I demolished his living room and pulled his closet doors off the track as if I were looking for something. Then, I sat in the chair in the kitchenette, waiting.

I listened for keys in the door, and when I heard them, I stood slowly, gripping the hammer in my hands. He grumbled as he found the mess I’d left, and walked straight into my path while on his way to the phone. I’d been counting on this. I slid behind him and pushed his body to the floor with my arms. He yelped, and I noted, with gratitude, that he’d closed the door behind himself. It’s funny, isn’t it, how men will close doors, but they won’t put down the toilet seat?

“What the hell do you want?”

I grinned, forgetting that he couldn’t see my face. “You know, I hate rude people.” I began. I sunk my hammer into his back after every time I spoke. “And mean people.” I began seeing red. My face burned. “And judgmental pricks.” Another blow.

 He flailed his arms, and I pulled just out of his grasp each time. “Please stop.” He begged.

“I can’t.” I sunk the hammer into his skull once, twice, again and again until the walls were spattered with blood and I was gasping for breath. His life was over. I dropped my weapon at his feet. “You’d turn me in.”

Reviews

[Brie]

Excellent!
"It's funny, isn't it, how men will close doors, but they won't put down the toilet seat?"
I had a good laugh on that one!
-Brie

[Banambi]

This is very interesting. I love the way the character calmly decides she wants to kill the 'library a*****e'. It would be more concise, though, if you made a smoother transition from "helping mom" to "murder weapon". The current transition leaves the reader sort of confused.
=] Let's hear it for badass killer girls.