I know the secret.
My cousin, Adam, revealed it when we were kids. He proved it easily with a deck of cards. I drew a card and he told me the number and suit. I read lines from a book silently and he recited them verbatim aloud. It took a dark turn when imagined shoving the spade end of a shovel into Adam’s mouth, focusing on the edges of his mouth slowly slicing open. Then I pull down the handle until his jaw rips from his face.
I couldn’t stop laughing at the discomfort written all over his face. He squirmed and shuttered telling me to stop. His reaction changed my life.
Sitting on the subway, I stare at a man across the isle from me and think about how tasty his flesh would be with mayonnaise. I obsess on it until he arrives at his stop. I make sure to smile at him creepily and consider following him. He hurries off the train to lose me in the crowd. I turn my thoughts to a woman two seats over and think about licking the bottom of her feet while gagged and chained to a bed. She looks uncomfortable. I make eye contact, hoping she tells me to stop thinking about her that way. No one ever does.
I spend my days projecting thoughts of bestiality, necrophilia, rape, murder, and cannibalism, only to watch the reactions of those around me. One day, they’re going to catch on and execute me. Either because they’ll realize that I know the secret or because I sicken them with the rancid, inhumane thoughts that go through my mind.