Short Story

Here is my latest. Enjoy:
(warning- this is mildly disturbing. it will not make you happy inside)

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My mother is the world’s worst cook. That’s an exaggeration, obviously- I haven’t met every mediocre cook in the world and judged them all on a scale of one to ten; I feel like that would be unnecessary.
How many of those cooks gave an entire Kiwanis Club luncheon food poisoning? How many of those cooks used eggnog instead of milk in the Thanksgiving mashed potatoes, and still made her daughter eat up? (Her son faked a stomach cramp and got out of it. Brilliant little brat)
That’s what really puts her above and beyond, I think: she doesn’t admit defeat. You could count on her to make cilantro cupcakes and serve them to the President, even if she knew they were awful.
And that’s what I was counting on.
The day of my sister’s-in-law birthday barbeque, I offered to go grocery shopping for the event.
Chips, salsa, some sort of refried bean dip, watermelon, a cheese platter, etc. All American party food. I left the store with everything but the stuff we would be barbequing. This was not a mistake.
The meat was already back at the house, pissing on my carpet and licking something I don’t even want to describe. The meat was also known as Scooter, Anita’s Shetland Sheepdog and a beast I feel so much disgust for I might actually vomit while telling you this.
I’m planning on “accidentally” running over Scooter tonight, right after writing the words “Happy Birthday, Sis” into a Devil’s Foodcake three-layer masterpiece which my mother has baked carrots into somehow. I will then barbeque Scooter and serve him to the loud, obnoxious, rude, and disgusting woman my beautiful brother married.
After getting home from the grocery store and flinging everything into the fridge, I found my mother and kissed her on the cheek.
“I got everything,” I said, straightening a picture of Anita with my brother Daniel on the fridge. I’d pluck it off and burn it later.
“Thank you for getting involved, sweetie. I know how hard it’s been for you to accept her since Daniel died, but I think the two of you could really bond tonight. He loved you both, afterall.”
I smiled bravely into the soft wrinkled palm that was affectionately cupping my cheek.
“Family is family, right? Plus, soon we’ll have a little Daniel running around here!” I replied happily. “Hopefully he isn’t a crack baby,” I thought.
The fact that my brother moved away, married a stranger, got her pregnant, and then died of what they called an “accidental overdose,” all within the period of two months, had taken me a long time to talk about.
She was an awful and unwelcome intrusion in our lives. She was an enabler and a drug addict. She was ruining our black bubble of grief because we had to love her, because she was pregnant.
This is my day. This is my plan. You are now up to date.
I can see her now through the round kitchen window, in a pink tank top and black ruffled mini-skirt. Her belly is giant and borderline terrifying, making her shirt work way too hard. What kind of a pregnant woman dresses like that? Does she have no respect for the fact that she is growing a human in there? Does she even know how much I want to scratch her eyes out when I see her cry? She is not in as much pain as I am. I loved Daniel my whole life. I loved him enough to cut him out when he wouldn’t stop snorting anything that could be crushed. I loved him enough to show up at his doorstep with a plan to get him clean. Then I loved him enough to accept his trashy, burned out wife. She loved him two seconds, and was too stupid to be on birth control. She doesn’t deserve to be here.
The dog has to die. This is how I choose to grieve. Canine slaughter.
It’s getting dark outside and Anita’s family is out on the patio, watching Scooter yelp and squeal and sneeze on things. I know that just like the past billion nights, Anita will throw a ball across the driveway and watch the tiny beast go and retrieve it. She calls it her “exercise.” Standing on the grass and throwing a ball, usually while eating a quesadilla (her favorite food) and letting the grease slide down her arm so Scooter can lick it off as a reward when he trots back over, his deep red ball looking like a blood clot in his mouth. What a peach. I’m so excited my brother chose to procreate with her. I’d probably snort myself to death if I realized a dumb whore was having my baby, too.
Slinking silently to my tiny foreign car Daniel loved so much, I sit and close the door like a phantom. As I start it the radio suddenly blares out a thumping dance song and I scramble to turn it down before anyone notices.
The noise of the radio echoes in my ears, pulsing, and Ican hear my own heartbeat. I can hear Daniel’s beautiful tenor voice. I can hear him playfully switching to a basso profundo and calling to me as if a god. I can hear the pop of his nine-year-old knuckles before he tickles me. I can hear my own nasally voice giggling wildly in anticipation. I can hear my voice crying. The sound startles me, and I cross my arms across my chest, each hand on it’s opposite’s shoulder. Clutching myself in this way for five minutes, I try to calm down. I realize my window of opportunity is growing smaller.
I watch the bright red ball fly past my rearview mirror, and can hear the scamper of tiny paws back and forth across the loose gravel of my mother’s house.
I watch it fly past six times and memorize the rhythm of her throws and his retrievals.
Right before I put the car in reverse and slam on the gas, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection: covered in tears, my face is wide and smiling.
Screams of every pitch fly at me from the corners of the front yard, and suddenly I hear a distinct, ragged sob coming from directly behind me.
With limbs made of clouds I put the car in park and float out of the driver’s seat.
By now people are running toward us, mouths in perfect “O” shapes, holding out their hands as if they could still stop it.
On the other side of the lawn, Scooter is prancing: happy, alive.
I see the pink tank top, resting at the crevasse between breast and belly, now covered in gravel. I sag toward the fender, the rest of my body obeying gravity, and the radio softly sighing behind me.

Author Commentary: A sad story. I liked summarizing the beginning in the past tense then transitioning to present- hopefully readers are not confused by this. I’d like to think it’s like someone telling you about it, while everything else is happening, and then you are experiencing it with them. I wanted you to dislike the pregnant wife as much as the narrator did, but experience the same guilt as if you had done it. The segue from telling about it, to living it, to a dreamy, vague ending will hopefully suck you in and make you live it. That’s what I was shooting for, at least. Oh, and I know it is super raw and kind of offensive in some places. That’s the character I wanted. Also, vague references to him being suicidal should come across as unbelievable; the wife is obviously so awful he killed himself and the main character seriously blames her for it.