Control

"When I look out in front of me, I see my hands,I know they are mine from vast experience of experiments confirming this fact, and, they do exactly what I tell them to. Which is nice, because apparently there are some people who have hands that don't do what they tell them to. And there are some people that don't have hands. I bet the latter aren't magicians. I don't say that to be mean, sometimes I think questions in my head, like; are there any magicians without hands? And I'll remember a book where there is a magician with no hands, but then I'll remember that was fiction, and in reality, there are no magicians without hands. But I won't say all of that out loud. Because that would be wasting your time. But then I come across as insensitive, because it would seem to be obvious that there are no magicians without hands. But it wasn't to me, and that's why I said it. Does that make sense to you?"

She took a large drag from her cigarette, held the smoke in her lungs for as long as she could, and exhaled loudly and dramatically pointing her breath at the ceiling. Then it out in an empty beer bottle lying on the floor.

"The point that I'm trying make here though, is that it's hard to actually know things sometimes. And I think that's why my behavior is erratic sometimes. But that's hard to know too, cause, well, if I knew why my behavior was erratic, then I would probably be able to fix it wouldn't I? And then, I wouldn't be so erratic, would I. But it might not be about me not knowing things. It might be the world around me. Always trying to control me."

She sat on her stool in the unfinished basement they were talking in. It was a well lit with with uncovered light bulbs. And she enjoyed the cool feeling of the cement on her bare feet. Her counterpart, strapped to the chair in front of her, did not.

"It's like! Like! Those fuckers at the Starbucks, always fucking trying to control me. Trying to like, fucking control my responses to their questions, you know? Like, I walk in, because I'm walking down a street and I think, fuck, I'm thirsty! So I'm going to get a coffee. And as luck would have it, there's a Starbucks every fifteen seconds in every direction no matter where you are in the world. And I start thinking... Do I like Starbucks coffee? Or did they just tell me that I like Starbucks coffee, so that I'll give them my fucking money all the time."

Her counterpart whimpers, and she jumps out of the stool and takes a knife out of her back pocket and puts it to his throat.

"I'm getting to my fucking point! Just fucking listen would you!" She pulls the knife away from his neck, and slowly walks back to her stool. " So I go in to Starbucks because I'm thirsty, but I'm also a little confused as to my decision about going in to a Starbucks, you know? But I walk in, and like, the guy behind the counter, he says to me 'How are you?'...And...like...I'm in a bit of a mood, so I say, 'I'm thirsty and I'm in a bit of a fucking mood, thanks for asking.' And I was being sincere when I said Thank-You by the way. So then this fucking tool says, 'Miss, could you please watch your language." And I am aghast. Aghast! Because like, how dare he? So I say 'You can't fucking watch your language! You fucking retard! No more than you can fucking listen to a fucking painting! Okay? I'll get a fucking coffee.' And the fucker, doesn't give me coffee! He refuses to serve me! And so I waited for this little piece of shit to get off work. Didn't I?"

The man in the chair is weeping softly. His hands have been removed. He's in shock. His mouth is gagged. She walks up to him again.

"I guess you're not a magician." And slits his throat.