It’s been twenty six hours since my last one. They said quitting would be hard, but I never thought it’d be like this. Every person I see grates on me like a playground slide made of nails. I have elaborate fantasies of grabbing each and every person by the neck and pressing my thumbs into their throat until I see their eyes go all foggy breathless.
The bank is probably not the best place to be when I’m this degree of on edge, I know, but banking has to be done. As I approach the teller, my fists already hurt from balling them up so tight, trying to find some release for the tension.
Just one more, I thought, that’d be a release.
I tucked that thought away and handed over the deposit bag. The teller opened it up and dumped out all of the checks and bills and started to count. Damn, I thought, she’s slow. I could count those bills faster with boxing gloves on. I could feel the tension rising again. I grabbed the edge of the counter and started to squeeze, anything to bleed out the rage. The fake pressed wood creaked under the stress, and after a few moments, broke away from the desk completely. The teller, with her fat stupid face, stared at me with a face that nudged me just over the edge. When she opened her mouth to say something in what I can only imagine was the most annoying and nasally voice ever to exit a person, I took the opportunity to jam the wood in my hands right through her skull.
Boy that felt good. Talk about a tension breaker. As I looked down at the lifeless body before me, I thought that unlike that one twenty six hours ago, this really does have to be my last one, so I should savor it.
