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by lily du
*knock*knock*
He’s here.
I’m in room 407 of the Four Seasons Hotel. This is the room he first invited me into, but he has invited so many women into so many hotel rooms that there’s no way for him to remember.
“So nice to be invited up to a hotel room for a change,” he told me over the phone, when I’d extended the invite. I gritted my teeth.
He’s here.
“It’s open,” I say, from two feet behind the door, gripping a gold statuette.
He opens the door.
*thud*
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*blink*blink*
He’s awake.
He’s lying on his back, naked on a massage table. Just like he likes it. Except this time he’s tied down with thick ropes and he’s bleeding profusely from in between his legs, where a limp penis and one testicle remain.
He starts screaming through his gag.
He’s awake.
I pick back up a pair of surgical scissors.
His eyes widen as he sees them go in, two open blades.
*snip*
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*cough*cough*
He tries to speak in defense of himself but he has no tongue.
He lies prostrate on a red carpet I’ve laid down on the floor. I take a golden statuette and shove it up his anus. He is full of shit and now he is figuratively and literally full of awards he won through manipulation and abuse. This one is an Emmy, so its arms are extended and has two sharp wings protruding from its shoulders.
I am seven awards deep, and they are starting to push their way out his lying throat. A mixture of shit and blood and the top of a Golden Globe.
I have sixty more awards to go.
“You should be proud of what a successful career you’ve had,” I say. I am the only one speaking for a change.
He tries to speak in defense of himself but he has no tongue.
*eughhhhh*
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*click*click*
He will harm no more.
I flip open a lighter and set his oil-doused body ablaze in the bathtub.
I squeeze some Purell onto my hands and pop an Altoid into my mouth. I smile.
I walk out of the room unscathed.
He will harm no more.
*a sigh of relief*
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