[At least I’m not that cunt, 644 words, Genre: Horror]
* Image courtesy of Dirk de Bruyn
They had been playing the game for a long time now. They talked about figures from their past. Drug addicts, thieves and all sorts of other types. They would talk to other people and prop themselves up on a pedestal. Reigning above other people. Talking about what they were doing with their lives, the jobs they held down and how other people were wasting away.
The conversation would always begin with, “Well, at least I’m not that cunt…”
To which the other would reply, “Which cunt?”
And the first would explain who were they were talking about and how they had gone about sabotaging their own lives. Making a real mess of things until they were isolated and distraught.
They didn’t know why they did it. It was just a habit that they naturally formed over the years. They knew that they had fucked up with their own lives too. But all in all, they hadn’t fucked up as some other cunt had, and talking about these other cunts who had fucked up more excessively than they, well, it made them feel better.
They would calm themselves and then they would feel better. It would put a smile on their faces. Knowing that they were a part of the world. That they were loved, cherished and accepted and these other cunts… Well, these other cunts would just be left to wallow in their own shit.
It would go on for years. And one of them was getting sick of it. So instead of bitching about other people. He would rub himself in shit. Saying that he was an arsehole. Saying all of the crappy things that he had done over the years. How, he, himself, was just another arsehole. And that he, too, had fucked up excessively. Some of these things that he said, he made up on the spot. Other things he had actually done. The truth of it was that everyone made mistakes. But that wouldn’t stop the other person. He didn’t understand it, didn’t get it.
Everyone was always someone else’s, ‘at least I’m not that cunt…’ topic of conversation.
After some time the person who needed the game. Needed to keep on reminding himself that he was better than other people. Well, he got rid of the other guy. He had obviously found someone else to play the game with. And so the other person was rejected and thrown into an isolated space. Nobody would visit him. He held to none of his other friends and attachments.
He knew what his old friends were doing. They were all playing, ‘at least I’m not that cunt…’ with each other. And they were talking about him.
Over the years, it would wear him down. As it did with everyone else. The thought of it. The mere thought of it. And then it would be someone else’s turn.
But why? For heaven’s sake, why? Why did they need to play the game? Why did they have to do any of it?
The reason was because it was just what people did. They all talked about other people and would play the game with one another. They would all play the game, ‘at least I’m not that cunt…’ because, in the end, it was fun. Everyone loves playing that game because it all makes them feel better about themselves. It keeps them trucking… Keeps them going through the hard times. They need that cunt to talk about. They need it. The lowest man is essentially the most integral part of the great conglomerate. Without him, or her, the others couldn’t do what they do. They couldn’t keep on keepin’ on.
And one day that cunt would commit suicide. And on the walls, written in his own blood would be the words, ‘AT LEAST I’M NOT THAT CUNT.’
Then it would be someone else’s turn.