You eviscerated my soul with your apathy. O what I will now do with my passion.
I hold the inexplicable talent of being able to create emotion, be it love or fury, or the physical, buildings and wonders of the world, all with mere written words. For me the physical world is my animus, my soul. And now you shall face written wrath for what youíve done (or not done) to me.
I gather my tools with the precision of a surgeon. I prepare slowly and diligently, allowing you proper time to hear the pathetic gurgling screams you emit and to apologize for your hypocrisy and indifference. Rubber gloves stretch and mold to the contours of my hands, serving as protection between my emotion and my principles. Focus is my scalpel, my insight is my hand which guides the scalpel just inside the surface of your skin. I hear you scream as your blood flees to its comfort zone in your pseudo-heart, "Iím sorry, Iím sorry, Iím sorry!" As repetitive and dishonest as before. I smirk knowingly.
Who did you think you could fool with your elementary tricks? Did you think I couldnít see what you were really thinking? I show you your skin as I peel it off your left arm. Might as well start off with the left side, the "sinestra", the sinister side of your "innocent" physical being. Do you see that? Your skin is crystal clear -- it shows nothing. Your "anima" has no life, and it has no passion, and it has no vigor. All it is is the encasing for a mash of tainted flesh. And to think you were proud of your skin, that natural beauty which you did nothing to earn. You relied on your physical attractiveness and not on anything you had to earn, like intelligence, insight, or emotion. How do you feel now that you see the skin tearing off of your body? How do you feel being separated from your entire being, your only redeeming quality?
Your skin, so transparent to the experienced eyes of mine. You lied to me. You attempted to dismiss your guilt by throwing me a red herring. By keeping me hanging on a string, you felt less remorseful, didnít you? You chose the easy way out. And you must pay.
Some parts of your skin do not separate themselves from your flesh easily. Perhaps you had inspiration to make something more of yourself at some point in your life, but it never caught on. Large metal pliers, or my intense criticism, rip the protesting skin off easily, however. It is no match. All skin is eventually stripped away.
You snatch your skin from my bloody hands. What disgusting abomination is left gobbles up the skin with the emptiness and misplaced emotion of Grendel, that putrid beast of Denmark. You poor thing, do you not realize that skin is meaningless on the interior?
In time, you pass away to whatever Hell awaits you. And, of course, you leave me with a mess to clean up. I know automatically that I am not cursed with the same difficulty as Lady Macbeth, and your blood washes off quickly and cleanly from my hands, under pure and life-giving water. I observe the operating table, carefully examining whatís left. The hematoma has no skin and blood, bones, and flesh seep to the ground, no longer self-confident enough to remain in a human form. Vital organs wilt. Veins mourn, as if they were innocent bystanders in an atrocity. The brain is covered with dark-red blood, useless now as it was before. I do not feel nauseous. I do not turn away. I stare. I indulge. I of course do not enjoy.
No bother cleaning any of this up. I leave it out for public speculation. I remove my rubber gloves, turn around, and slip once, only once, on the pitiful pools of blood which creep repulsively along the floor. I give one last look at my soiled shoe, then leave the room, shutting the door behind me.
I put down my pen and resume my normal life, unfazed.