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Fiction Friday! This week prompt: Is there someone who drives you crazy? Someone who really gets under your skin. It doesn’t have to be someone you know (although it certainly can be). It could be someone famous. Or even a character in a book. Now, write a first-person piece – as if YOU are this individual. Write from his or her perspective and include the things that really bother you. For instance, maybe there’s a good reason why they eat with their mouths open, or why they use sarcasm as a weapon.

Word limit is 600.

All concrit is welcome.
Samantha sits there in ‘her’ spot to Joseph’s right, all high and mighty. That should be my spot. The sun is weakly sharing the last of its rays through the deck window highlighting her ridiculous hair. I wonder why he allows her to dye her hair that color. It looks stupid. You’re stupid.

“What was that?” I stab at her.

She stops pushing the food that I spent all afternoon making around on her plate to look up first at Joseph, then at me. I see hatred and hostility flood into those river bottom green eyes. She’s going to hurt me one day. Kill the babies.

“I’m sorry?” Samantha asks. She’s not sorry. She’s never sorry. She’s always been suspicious of me. She knew all my secrets from the minute she laid eyes on me. She is powerful, not of this world, sent here to this life just to torture me. She probably already knows that I tricked Joseph into having this second baby. Lied, stopped taking my birth control, his other wives only had one, not two.

“I said, what smart-ass remark was that I missed?” I say refusing to give in.

This time she doesn’t even look at her father for support. Her unnatural knowing creeps across her lips, curving up, taunting me. Her tongue is forked.

“I didn’t say a word, Elena, not one,’ Samantha says, crisply. So haughty, forever young.

“Eat your dinner, you selfish girl. I spent all afternoon making it,” I announce demanding respect.

She laughs, actually laughs. Her eyes turn black.

“You spent all afternoon frying chicken cutlets, roasting potatoes in way too much oil and shredding some lettuce into a bowl? Now, that’s time well spent.”

“Sam…” says Joseph slowly, warning her. Good, I’m gaining ground.

“If you think that you can do so much better why don’t you take over the cooking?” I hiss, baiting her, trying to get her to show her father what she really is.

“Jesus Christ, Elena, I’ve only been trying for years! Please, let me take over.  Get out of the kitchen, so I don’t have to eat this crap and so that you can stop killing him one artery clog at a time!” Samantha says pointing her purple-tipped talon at Joseph.

Why can’t he see what she is? She’s going to ruin everything. I have to make him see. All I have to use is the cutlery. “You ungrateful,” I yell as a war cry, plunging the fork as deeply as I can into the back of her hand. A moment of perfect silence. Yes. The fork is upright, wobbling a little at the top. Blood is trying to force its way around the tines and down her freckled flesh. Suddenly, the room is loud. Cover your ears.

Joseph knocks his chair over, yelling as he reaches for her, finally he sees! But I can’t understand what he is saying, like he’s speaking a language I don’t. Samantha stands up, pale, angry, beautiful, pulls the fork out and throws it at me. She presses a paper napkin imprinted with blue flowers against the small, perfectly spaced, bleeding squares and glides out of the room. Wrapped in Grace. Joseph looks at me and I see pity and anger. Why is he so angry with me? What is happening?

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