The Boyfriend

by Freida McFadden

I lay my palm on my chest. “I will never kill a flower ever again.” And I mean it. I will never kill a flower ever again.

“flower” yeah okay buddy

She’s so delicate. I’m not a big guy, but she’s a lot smaller than I am. If I grabbed her head and gave it a solid twist to the left, I could break her neck. It wouldn’t even be hard to do.

Everytime this dude mentions an intrusive thought, i side eye

the daisy fell from her fingers. When I look down, I see it under my sneaker, the white petals smashed into the pavement.

foreshadowing

Actually, she would probably be dead after even less than five pints. Maybe just three or four. I can just imagine the color draining out of her soft cheeks, the way her body would go limp. Well, she would be limp at first. But then she would eventually stiffen in rigor mortis. I’ve read all about it.

intrusive thoughts stay winning

I wonder if she would still feel the same way if she knew the thoughts that were going through my head as I squeezed the blood out of her finger.

therapy

I had an accident, Tom. What should I do? I asked helplessly as I watched the blood gush from the stump of her left arm. Well, Daisy said, now I am uneven. So you’ll have to cut off the other hand so I’ll be symmetrical again. Even in my dreamlike state I recognized this wasn’t a good idea. But I obligingly took the carving knife out of the knife block while Daisy lay her right hand down on the kitchen counter. I held the knife over my head and brought it down hard on her right forearm. It sliced cleanly through the bone, severing her right hand.

It’s only after I get home that I realize Tom never gave me back my bloody shirt.

I know exactly how to cut my father’s throat. I have to say thanks to all those surgical textbooks I bought and read cover to cover.