(I is for) Irascible

Warnings: lack of editing warning

Sometimes I get a bit angry…

My heart pounds, fast and shallow as my breaths, pounding like I’ve run a marathon even though I haven’t moved an inch in an eternity. The dress feels too heavy, too tight, against my skin, scratchy and frustrating against skin flushed like a burn. My nails dig through the fabric and into the skin of my thighs- anything to distract, anything to get through this moment. My eyes sting with angry tears, with the strain of biting my tongue to keep from unleashing hell upon the idiots around me.

Not yet. Soon, but not yet.

He’s been talking shit for hours now, making shit up in the hopes of sounding far more intelligent than he will ever actually be. This isn’t an enjoyable night of work for me. You should know that. I should be circulating the room, but instead, his hand, heavy as an axe, holds me in place by the shoulder. I could move him, but not until it’s time. There’s too much at stake to risk the idiots figuring out my plans. They’re stupid, but even the stupidest prey mammal is capable of getting lucky, and bypassing a much-deserved fate.

He’s not saying anything anyone needs to hear. Rumours and conspiracy theories, the stupider the better- the kind of guy who’ll tell you that water gives you autism because all those autistic kids floated around in their mothers and surely that’s more than coincidence- all backed with bellowed, falsified rage at anyone daring to point out the painfully obvious truth.

Truth isn’t welcome here. This is a place for his personal truths, no-one else’s. But this is the kind of man who feels that everywhere is a space for his personal truths, and only his.

Even calling them ‘truths’ is an insult to actual, reasonable truths. Like spreading a sloppy turd on a pancake and calling it Nutella. Maybe the colour looks similar enough to fool the particularly inattentive, but anyone with a sense of smell isn’t putting that thing near their mouths. Every word spews forth from his mouth like a gush of diarrhoea splattering upon the people unfortunate enough to be trapped within this crater of vapid, tedious pointlessness.

He has no idea about any fucking thing, not that it ever stops him. Doesn’t stop most of them, truth be told.

It’s why I’m here, dressed to impressed and struggling to keep the hate out of my politely interested expression. It’s all just a job, and right now I just want the noise to stop. That’s all. Once upon a time people spoke when they had something of value to say, not just because the sound of their own voice tickles their unmentionables. Especially at volumes best left to mothers calling at their children running loose on acreage. Every inane thought flittering through half-formed minds splatters about the room, loud as possible to try and drown out everyone else’s verbal BM.

I’m done.

They won’t leave her in anything less than pieces. That’s my vow to the gods of silence.

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