THE MADNESS DESCENDS
Wednesday 29 November 2017 - Early Morning
I have finally done it. I have succumbed to madness. I couldn't help it, you see. It was not my intention, to be sure. In the early dawn of this cold, grey Seattle day, warm and cozy in my small studio apartment near the heart of the city, I simply snapped.
There was no warning.
There was no warning.
The day began innocently enough; I awoke as usual to the incessant bleating of an alarm just before six o'clock. Yawning, I went into the kitchen and began to cook breakfast for my husband. I wanted him to have a warm meal in his belly before he was due at the office downtown for his mandatory paid slave labor. We ate in companionable silence, my own breakfast consisting of cereal (Honey Bunches of Oats, if it's important to the telling), yogurt, and coffee. Immediately following his departure, just after seven, I wandered back into the tiny kitchen and deposited the dirty dishes onto the counter. A perfectly reasonable act by a perfectly sane individual.
That's when it all went to hell.
Instead of turning around and walking out of the kitchen, leaving the dishes to fester and rot like a normal human might, I suddenly stopped. It was then that I felt it. A swirling, black cloud of madness descended upon me, merely tickling my scalp at first, and then swallowing me whole. I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I couldn't even think. My mind was no longer my own. Before I could so much as breathe, I felt my body being manipulated as though I were nothing more than a marionette. As if I were being guided by the hand of the devil himself, I reached for the tap and turned the water on as hot as it would go, and turned the drain plug until it would turn no more. I watched in fascination and horror as the sink began to fill. Further derangement ensued as I picked up the bottle of dish detergent (heretofore used only as decoration) and, tipping it on its side, felt a demonic grin spread across my face as the slimy yellow liquid fell helplessly into the rising water, forming a bubbling mountain. I switched off the tap and turned my attention to my unsuspecting victims. Two plates with caked-on spaghetti, last night's dinner. The last dinner I would ever cook as a sane person. A bread pan. A pot. Assorted cutlery. This morning's breakfast plate. Bowls. Coffee mugs. Not one would survive.
My grin widened.
I held the innocent dishes under the near-scalding soapy water and began to assault each one with my rectangular absorbent torture device. To drown out my victims' screams of protest, I decided it was time for a little mood music. Picking up my phone, I opened Spotify and scrolled through my playlists until I found what I was looking for: the perfect melodic accompaniment to my murder spree. I selected My FAVORITE Christmas Music! from the playlist menu, turned up the volume, and hummed along as Mannheim Steamroller's Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow! reached my ears. The shrieking sounds emanating from below the water faded to a dull murmur. I sighed contentedly. Christmas would be here soon.
One by one, the scratchy sponge relieved my glass hostages of their souls. I laughed barbarically as I hung their lifeless bodies on the metal rack next to me. I was beginning to rather enjoy being mad.
Only one resisted. A small red frying pan, with spots of rust on the bottom. As I picked it up, the handle wiggled precariously. I sniggered. An old, frail thing with a screw loose. No match for my superior strength. Or so I thought. Alas, try as I might, the soul of the old rusty pan clung on stubbornly, refusing to budge. Egg, I thought bitterly. No matter. I took the recalcitrant prisoner out of the water and threw it in the soaking cell. I'd deal with that one later. This done, I drained the water, and glanced around the kitchen with a sigh. The mess would have to be dealt with. I could leave no signs of a struggle. No one could ever know what happened here. I took a container of Lysol wipes from the cupboard under the sink and went to work. My prisoner's cries echoed softly in the small room as I wiped down the stove and counters. I frowned as I realized that the music had stopped. I pressed PLAY and it immediately began again. Frank Sinatra this time, demanding that I have myself a merry little Christmas. I finished washing away the evidence of my crimes, and dried my hands with a satisfied nod. I glanced at the draining rack, remembering the bodies. I shrugged. I would have to wait until they were completely dry and then dispose of them. Pausing in the doorway, I turned and gave the kitchen a final once-over. Nothing more to be done. Ignoring the protests of the soaking pan, which were just barely audible over Sinatra's crooning baritone, I switched the light off and walked out of the kitchen.
Now in the living room, I assessed the state of things. I tsked to myself as I took in the rumpled, unmade bed and the clothes and blankets strewn carelessly over the faux-leather armchair. A lone pillow lay in the middle of the floor, separated from the mismatched herd that decorated the comfy, oversize bean bag chair nearby. Bags of recycling overflowed in the corner. Shaking my head disapprovingly, I decided to start by making the bed and bagging up the rubbish. As I worked, I realized that the insanity was beginning to wane slightly. Perhaps the demon had been satiated? In a fleeting moment of lucidity, I wondered if perhaps I would soon be myself again. I looked over at the small pine coffee table in the center of the room. It was a hand-me-down, and showed several signs of wear. I cleared the rubbish off of the top, ignoring the stuck-on piece of paper that no amount of vigorous scrubbing with Lemon Pledge could ever seem to remove. I crouched down to see if there was more garbage underneath. Here I spotted two empty drinking glasses that had fallen over and been forgotten. The flickering glimmer of hope I had harbored seconds earlier was immediately extinguished. I felt myself grinning again as the now-familiar wave of madness overcame me once more.
Now in the living room, I assessed the state of things. I tsked to myself as I took in the rumpled, unmade bed and the clothes and blankets strewn carelessly over the faux-leather armchair. A lone pillow lay in the middle of the floor, separated from the mismatched herd that decorated the comfy, oversize bean bag chair nearby. Bags of recycling overflowed in the corner. Shaking my head disapprovingly, I decided to start by making the bed and bagging up the rubbish. As I worked, I realized that the insanity was beginning to wane slightly. Perhaps the demon had been satiated? In a fleeting moment of lucidity, I wondered if perhaps I would soon be myself again. I looked over at the small pine coffee table in the center of the room. It was a hand-me-down, and showed several signs of wear. I cleared the rubbish off of the top, ignoring the stuck-on piece of paper that no amount of vigorous scrubbing with Lemon Pledge could ever seem to remove. I crouched down to see if there was more garbage underneath. Here I spotted two empty drinking glasses that had fallen over and been forgotten. The flickering glimmer of hope I had harbored seconds earlier was immediately extinguished. I felt myself grinning again as the now-familiar wave of madness overcame me once more.
Yes, Mr. Sinatra. It would be a very merry little Christmas, indeed.
