cy mba l s
2 021 : met hod a nd mad nes s
You Wanna Know a Secret? Well, I’ll tell you, but just promise me you won’t tell anyone. Sound good? Wait, how do I know that I can trust you? Should we pinky swear? Write a pact? Sign an NDA with our blood? Get matching tattoos on our foreheads? Maybe you don’t need to know my secret. What’s that? A verbal reassurance? Yeah, I guess that’ll do. Let’s get a move on. One time, right, this guy at work was mad I got a promotion over him and wanted to get me fired by making up some bs story. Somehow, his plan worked, so I ended up fired. When I got “the talk,” my veins popped from my skull –– just under my flesh, causing me to feel a sudden fit of pure rage prowl up my vertebrae; so I did what any normal person would do. I trudged to my maroon Maserati and fished out the ice scraper from under the spare tire and old gym bag, marched toward his black Beemer and bashed his windshield in. Thousands of jagged shards flew in all possible directions like snow on Christmas morning. He deserved it, right? Well, it doesn’t matter, I actually made that up on the fly. I would never commit crime. Or would I? I’ve never been a great liar, I’m quite impressed with how much my skills have improved. Or are you just gullible? It’s hard to tell. Whatever the case, I’m sorry I tricked you. I know you really want to know my secret, and I promise that I will tell you. Well, here it is. I can’t put this off any longer. My big, bad, very deep secret: I may have done something. Just don’t freak out, OK? — Gautam Ravipati, XI: flash fiction
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