F3 - Cycle 38 - Rage Diary

Submitted for Friday Flash Fiction

Prompt: Write a story involving madness in whatever form appeals to you.
Genre: Open
Word Count: 1200 words.
Deadline: Thursday, July 7th, 6 pm EST.

********

Dear Diary,

I know they don't mean to get in my way. How could they possibly understand? They belong to the realm of the bottom feeders; they should take what's given to them, nothing more! But can't they see? I need to pass through untouched. And I cannot bear their proximity or their scent. It used to be that the bottom feeders knew their place and separated themselves out. They had an inborn courtesy toward their betters.

You know what I'm about to say, now, don't you Dear Diary? It's time again to make permanent the reminder that they are bottom feeders. I know you fret when I talk like this, but I'm sorry! It must be done.

Think about the smell of them. Oh, I just gag to do it, but you must know. First it's their sweat. It's dark with a pungency redolent of their low nature. Dirt, poverty, onions, garlic, subatomic lowliness. I can see it waft off of them in stale brown waves. Don't give me that look, Dear Diary, I do see it. I am sensitive to the supernatural and you know it.

I can smell their hair. The cheap shampoo that only masks the oily funk rolling from their scalps. A combination of "seaside breezes" and crude oil. Their efforts at cleanliness are an open mockery of God. Who do they think they are kidding?

And don't even prompt me to reveal what I know about their sex. I shiver at the thought. Shame on you, dirty Dear Diary! Do not lead me further into torment!

The way they move, trying to stand upright and confident, like they have as much right to be here as I do. There is a hierarchy. There always will be a hierarchy. Their confidence is an affront to my superiority and their disrespect for the natural order of things. No amount of friendly teeth-baring will even us out.

It is time, Dear Diary, for the ritual. I will gather the ingredients and focus my holy power. God has told me it is time to do this. That is why I am so sure. What would you know anyway; you're just a book. It is time to enter the sacred armory and apothecary and combine steel and poison to scare the ever-living fuck out of these "people."

So, hold me in your heart Dear Diary. I will tell you all about it when it's done. And you will be pleased; order will be restored and I will be happy again.