You’re gorgeous, I’m pretty handsome too.
Eric is like the sweetest water when you are actually hungry.
Of course I talked to my parents, but both swore blind they never entered my room. You see, I know they didn’t. I know nobody did. Which is exactly what’s wrong about it. Which is what gets these terrible thoughts into my head. About the Christmas eve and how somebody’s heart will stop beating. Like, forever. It’s actually quite overwhelming if you think about all those blood cells, neural mechanisms, glandular particles that will not just stop functioning – they will totally cease to exist.
And that could be me. There is no reason why Jo (jealousy) couldn’t do it. Or, come to think of it, Eric (broken heart). Or Emma (paroxysm). Or… go on, look through the full list of murderers.
Lying in my bed in the afternoon (Saturday, baby, Saturday), trying to spread my legs and look like a Victorian prostitute, considering those blood cells and neural mechanisms, I thought of Peter. Peter who teaches medicine at the London University. Part time, Peter is also Emily’s husband. You know, that slump of wood who actually somehow produced Jo.
So, about Peter. I know I promised not to intervene, but pity mixed with evil intent made me reconsider. I sent Peter an anonymous SMS containing three words: “Emily and Henry”.
I don’t think I’m a very good person. But are they?
P.S. 12 days.