Tonight will be the night. Just a few more hours. I’ve spent years hiding this darkness inside me. My urges have taken over little by little, but tonight’s going to be the big one. I reach into my back pocket and wrap my frigid fingers around the metal neck of my flathead screwdriver. I don't know what made me the way I am, what event hollowed me out and filled me with spite and rage, but every day, I find a new, twisted way to spite the universe for making me.
I wander down some side street, surveying up and down each corner and crevice. Every street is a new hunting ground. There's a car parked on the street, a Subaru. I have no interest in it; there’s nothing I could get from a Subaru to settle my needs. They don't have the same sickening smoothness, the same violent, sultry eyes. No trait held that is nearly as monstrous as those of my typical victim. I continue walking. There’s no reason to linger. I have prey to hunt.
The sun sets behind me as I walk through the streets, vaguely making my way towards home. Turning the corner, I see it. The object of my desire, my detested white whale. One last victim before tonight, before the big one. I approach it on the street carefully, stalking like a snake in the grass. I graze my fingertips across its body, feeling that familiar frigid, painted metal. I trace from the headlights to the bumper, feeling each curve, each dent, each blemish on its skin. Once I reach the back, I see it. It's like branding, a vile italicised font to further induce my vicious rage. PRIUS. The letters are cold, but not like the body of the car is. They're flimsy plastic painted to look metal, another corner cut by the leeches at Toyota.
I wedge the tip of the screwdriver under each letter with surgical precision so as not to scrape the paint beneath. Each one comes off with a thick crackling pop, falling right into my palm. I toss them in my hand like dice, listening to their twinkling chatter, before moving forward. This is a small relief for the evil that looms inside of me, but it's not enough. Taking the letters off of dozens of cars, month after month, has only fuelled my fury. Tonight, though, all of that will be satisfied. The sun finishes setting. I find my way home.
“Peanut, where did you put the first aid kit? Mommy’s got a boo-boo,” my mother asks as I step through the front door. God, I hate that woman. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard. She won’t leave me alone for a god damn minute.
“I don’t know,” I murmur back. The less I say to her, the less she’ll try to make conversation. I’ve learned this over the years. She continues to look for the first aid kit without my assistance.
“How was the job hunt today, sweetums?” Classic move by my mother. She's always interrogating me. She wants to know my every move, deepest secrets, all so she can take advantage of them, of me. Constantly begging me to find a job, apply to schools, and hang out with her friends' kids. I can't fucking stand it. She's always scheming something up to make me more and more miserable. I stay silent, watching her smile falter at the corners from my lack of response. “I made those delicious banana muffins again, you loved those last time, remember? With the walnuts?” She gestures towards a ceramic serving platter with several perfect muffins stacked on top of each other. I grunt in response. Yes, the muffins are delectable. But I'd never tell her that. She’d probably slip some thallium in there one day to finally get rid of me. I kick off my shoes and throw my jacket onto the floor, then swiftly exit towards my room. She picks up my jacket behind me.
I slam my bedroom door. The blinding pink walls make me gag every time, a color my mother insisted upon when I was young. Columns of letters line the walls, nearly floor to ceiling—dozens of PRIUSes. The lamp light glints off them. Here, I can truly be myself and release the beast inside of me. My nightstand overflows with empty soda cans and full notebooks. Papers with sprawling rambles and scribbles litter the floor. Above my bed is a massive framed print of a 2014 Toyota Prius in magnetic grey. The glass is cracked at the windshield, a splinter made by the very same screwdriver I use to defile cars. My fury grows each morning I wake up to it.
I fall back onto my bed and stare at the drawings that cover my ceiling. Red and black inked cars in various stages of destruction. One of the Priuses had crashed into a pole. One was in flames. One was being pissed on by a ratty little dog. The anger within me stirs each time I see these drawings. I want to ruin those cars. I need to ruin them. There’s no one alive who can understand the shadows I live in.
I lay silently, staring at the ceiling for hours, until finally, I heard the sound of my mother’s bedroom door closing. It’s time. I take that same screwdriver and flick each letter off of my wall, pink paint chipping down with them. I put them into a gallon sized ziplock and shove them into a duffle bag, alongside my other tools. I open my door slowly, silently, and sneak out the front door. I get a banana muffin on my way out.
The stars follow me as I walk down the same street I always do. Every night is the same. I see the same maroon Kia Soul speed past me, the same radiant red Honda Pilot pulls into their driveway. But tonight will be different. Tonight, I'll be able to embody my hate in a way I never have before and satisfy my urges for months, even years more. I walk towards the glowing sign like a moth to flame.
I approach the dealership with caution. The air is still– too still. The parking lot is lit only by the sign, and a wave of neon blue light from the Toyota logo washes over the many cars. They look innocent like this, under the moonlight and cerulean lights. No, I remind myself. They deserve it, those pathetic cars. With such pitiful mileage and shoddy craftsmanship, there’s no defilement these cars don’t deserve. The darkness within me shoves any empathy out of my mind. All I need to feel is rage.
I kneel at the back of the car, eye to brake lights. I wedge my screwdriver under each letter on the car. A blank slate. The superglue that I once used to hang these letters up in my room is now my accomplice, the only thing keeping my plan together. I reach into my bag and hear that familiar clinking sound. I lather glue on the back of each letter before carefully lining them up on the back of the car.
Just as I place the final letter on the first car, I see a white LED light dancing between the cars out of the corner of my eye. Fuck, a security guard. I thought they'd all be gone by now. I crouch behind the car I was working on and exhale my breath, gazing at the moving light through the tinted back windows. It's getting closer. He’ll be here soon. I squeeze the screwdriver until my knuckles are white. The sound of combat boots on gravel is louder and louder, the light getting brighter and brighter. I inhale sharply. He hears me.
“Who’s there?” a gruff voice says sternly. The light bobs around the area frantically until it finally illuminates me. I stare directly into it through the window. I stand up slowly, so slowly that I can hear my knees creak.
“Hello,” I say softly, disarmingly. His flashlight stays on me like a spotlight. I’ve never felt so exposed.
“What are you doing back here? The dealership’s closed till morning.”
I hesitate, I blink. I could take him out right now. I probably should. It wasn’t part of my original plan, but it's perfectly reasonable. No witnesses, no survivors. I bite my bottom lip as I imagine his blood splurting out onto the hood of the car. I can't. I need to restrain myself. Months of planning have led up to this; I shouldn't let some pathetic security guard ruin it all.
“I’m… smoking pot,” I say, looking him straight in the eyes. His flashlight is blinding me, but I don't blink. I won't.
“Oh, okay. Sorry for interrupting.” He takes the spotlight off of me and continues his rounds, walking in the opposite direction. I finally exhale. Once again, pot saves the day. I shake my head and continue my handiwork– prying letters off, gluing letters on.
After hours of work, hours of prying, gluing, and placing, I've finished. All of the Priuses in the lot have been branded by me, and have been perverted to the most extreme extent. I step back to admire my handiwork. Dozens of these cars in a row, lined up like sardines. Above the back left brake light are my words, my manifesto. I PISS. It’s perfect.
The leftover Rs and Us jingle against each other in my bag as I make my way out of the dealership. I walk down the same street I walked up, but with a new power in my step. The stars are shining brighter now; they flood my path with light more than the street lamps do. I arrive home with an unwavering grin, crawl into bed, and sleep more soundly than I ever have.
I wake in the morning wearing the same smile I fell asleep with. The darkness that hides in me feels a little lighter today. The sun shines through my blinds onto my face like an angel's greeting. I make my way downstairs to watch the news– it should have been discovered by now, they should all know what I’ve done to these damned vehicles. My mother stands in the living room in front of the television, mouth agape. She stares at me with fear and disgust. Of course, she’d have to ruin today, what should be the best day of my life, for her own fucked up agenda. I prepare for an interrogation.
“Honey bunches, I'm concerned. I’ve been hearing you leave late at night for the past month, and now I'm seeing all this on the news, I just– I want you to be safe, lovemuffin. Come on, tell mama what’s going on,” she says to me. Behind her, on the television, is a headline– my headline. PRIUSES VANDALIZED: I PISS. The darkness within me moans orgasmically at the images of my handiwork on the news. It was worth it, it was all worth it, those months of prowling the streets for prey had finally paid off.
“It’s nothing that concerns you, mother,” I reply, trying to hide my excitement.
“Come on, Shmoopie, tell me where you’ve been going, please. I’m worried about you. I don't want you to be getting yourself into trouble, I know you have a… vendetta against these cars,” she begs. I love it. This evil bitch has been making chicken pot pies and banana muffins for years, trying to convince me to trust her. She thinks she can appeal to my human side, but she doesn’t know I don't have one. Where humanity should be within me is instead a steaming void of rage, one which will only be satisfied through the desecration of what is sacred.
“What happened was a long time coming. God willing, you shall never see a Prius intact for the rest of your woeful life.”
“Pumpkin, you know I hate it when you talk all biblical at me,” she responds.
Before I can rebuke, there is a loud crash. A metal bottle breaks through the window, releasing a thick cloud of gas. I cry out in pain as my eyes begin spitting out tears. I can't see anything. The smoke alarms are going off now. The alarm pierces my ears as the tear gas attacks my eyes. A battering ram bursts through the front door, and a dozen SWAT officers in gas masks stampede in behind. I can barely see or hear, between the moans of my pathetic mother, the elephantine stomping of combat boots, and the dense, heavy gas that pollutes our air.
I am tackled to the ground and handcuffed. There are four men holding me, one on each limb. They know my strength, what harm I could cause them if I truly wanted to. I refuse to struggle; I can't give them the satisfaction. I hear my mother drop to the floor next to me, sobbing. She’s so delusive, always feigning tears for sympathy. She can't even let me have this moment to myself. I go limp as they drag me out the front door and throw me into a padlocked vehicle. There are nearly fifty vehicles lining the street, from armored Ford F-150s to standard police Chevy Tahoes.
Before they shut the door, before they lock me up for the rest of my life, I see a car driving in the distance. A Prius– but not just any Prius. The very same 2014 magnetic grey Prius I fall asleep next to every night. It's slow, like Priuses tend to be, but it seems to be getting even slower. Swarms of officers are talking about me, about my masterpiece, but I can't hear them anymore. All I hear is the distant rumble of that Prius. I remember the way its body felt in my hands, as if we were made for each other. I just want to feel it one last time– caress that thick, leather steering wheel in my hands, surrender to those throbbingly hot seat warmers. I miss it. I feel something inside that I never have before, a lightness. It's lifting me up off my knees, bringing me to stand. Tears stream down my face as I watch the flash of magnetic grey race out of my sight for the last time.
I whisper, so softly, so gently, only God can hear. “Quos deus vult perdere, prius dementat.” I collapse.
