Mundane

Morgan Yazdi

I’m a good manipulator, not a good murderer.

Lying is instinctual, but I fear I’m too timid to kill. I’m too afraid to even set roommate boundaries.

After checking if the back door of the house is locked, I sit in bed, thinking about the kitchen sink. I picture the leftover food residue clinging to the inside of piled dishes. Amber’s cutting board is at the bottom, June’s pot sits on top, Lilly has her used cups cascading down the heap. And my mug. My mug has been sitting in the sink for 3 days.

Can I use this.”? June asked. “I promise I’ll wash it after”.

I nodded vigorously despite knowing June would not wash it after. I think it would be more likely that I slam the dish into her skull.

Ugh, but then I would have to sweep up the shattered pieces.

But murder, that’s been on my mind. I think it would be good for me. Help me become what I’m so afraid of. Take back control.

I think I locked the back door but I walked out of my room, just one more time, to ensure the mechanism lay vertically.

Vertical is locked. Horizontal is unlocked. Vertical is locked. Horizontal is unlocked. Vertical is unlocked. Horizontal is locked.

What? No.

I twist the knob. Still locked.

Vertical is the one that is upright. Horizontal is the one that is straight across.

I can’t say that I’ve had some traumatic childhood event that fundamentally broke my psyche. I remember flashes of uncertainty and discomfort. A line that was danced on but never fully crossed. My dad continued to dress me for school past the age of being appropriate. I had an impulse to cover up, to tell him to leave. But I was never sure. I was 8.

Did I lock the door?

Checking one more time wouldn’t hurt.

When I was older, I’d take the bus to school despite my dad’s offers to drive me, just so I could avoid feeling his stare in the rearview mirror. He told my mom about that. That his one and only daughter doesn’t love him.

I turn the knob.

Ok, it’s locked.

Maybe it was high school that fucked me up. Could have been that. I was fat. Or at least I felt fat by association to thinness. There was no diversity of size. No body positivity movement. Only shame. I remember the suffocating feeling of the elastic waistband of my maroon skater skirt. The indents it left on my stomach. I’d stand in front of the mirror, playing with different levels; waistband below my stomach, in the middle, above. I struggled to find ways to hide. Either way my stomach stuck out, persisted to be seen. Fat means unlovable. That’s what I was conditioned to think. Till one day I was loved.

———

His stupid grey Honda Accord is sitting in the Trader Joe’s parking lot.

Fuck.

I just need to get some groceries and here he is.

Not today. Not today.

The beginning was so…

Perfect.

He was too good to be true. Oh to live in those beginning moments forever. The sweetness of first impressions and the polite precision of getting someone to like you. We went mini golfing for our first date. He stood behind me, gently enclosing his arms around me. He clasped his hands around my grip of the rusted golf club. Tenderly, he guided my swing as I melted into his chest. Steady collision of ball meeting club. It traveled seamlessly into its destined course.

Hole in one.

It was a good omen, I thought. I knew we’d start dating after that.

Several months and fights later we went hiking. The trail was simple but littered with weeds that kissed our ankles and left irritation. I found a lovely wooden swing tied to a gentle branch.

I hopped on, pretending I was immersed in a tragic but beautiful Bridge to Terabithia kind of world.

Then he swung too.

How romantic, I thought.

I sat beside him on the swing despite his protest: he didn’t think it could support us both. I encouraged him not to worry and we took off. After a weak push, a creaky cry sang beneath us. The wooden swing splintered and collapsed under our weight, cracking the plank straight in half.

Oh.

It was a bad omen, I thought. I knew we’d break up after that.

Now I think I could put a knife in his heart. Not that he had one. If he did, it would probably be just as small as his…

I just need to get through today.

10:30am: Grocery shopping

12:00pm: Study

5:00pm: Lecture

7:00pm: Make dinner

3:10 am: Study

I can feel myself spiraling and welcome myself to a seat at the table. A chaotic little party inside my head. But shoes off at the welcome mat! I’m trying to keep the floors clean.

Just get in the store and get out.

Tomatoes. Rice. Oh, microwave meals. Several. Frozen dumplings. Kombucha. Canned soup.

The weight of the shopping basket pulls me toward the earth. I attempt to alleviate the weight by placing my hand underneath its plastic belly.

An elderly woman in a green pea coat has planted herself directly in front of the frozen chicken tikka masala. Her tiny frame tips forward to examine the label.

How long do you need to stare at the health ingredients for a processed meal?

I need to lighten the weight of my load… maybe I should chuck my canned soup at her head.

Ahh. That sounds better.

That wouldn’t do the trick, I would need to finish her off with the frozen blueberries. Fruity suffocation would seal the deal.

Hmm too many witnesses though.

My alibi wouldn’t stand a chance.

Finally, she turns, offering me an uncomfortable smile as she places the frozen meal in her basket and scurries off.

I just need two more things: cantaloupe and green tea. I propel myself forward but the pull of the basket persists downward. Why are these baskets so weak?

I feel like I’m microdosing mania in the produce aisle of Trader Joe’s.

Melon. Where is the melon?

Snap.

The baskets' metal clasp gives out completely. The tomatoes catapult themselves onto the floor, my cans roll away Chef Boyardee style, and the glass kombucha bottle shatters, leaving sticky shards across the floor.

I stiffen, waiting for the world, or me, to combust.

Shoppers continue to push their carts and inspect produce for blemishes. No one makes a move to pull themselves away from their own lives.

I pinch my forearm to redirect my brain elsewhere. I find some dead skin to peel back for a rush of relief. My basket blurs in and out of focus.

I’ve dabbled in cutting before. Nothing too crazy. Nothing to get me caught.

Leave no trace. Conceal the evidence.

Yeah, that’s a good murder strategy.

I have about 3 true crime podcasts under my belt. I’ve learned from the classics, mastered the mundane.

There’s something seductive about a woman who kills. Someone who is calculated, controlled in her execution.

Why is there no murdermingle.com? Sexy singles looking for a partner in crime. Handcuffs in and out of the bedroom.

Mhm.

A thief to steal my heart.

I miss him.

Or at least, I miss the distraction he provided. I wish someone could walk inside my mind and clean up the clutter for me.

I’m not a good murderer. The only things I’ve ever killed were my chances at being happy.