I never quite liked Mondays. The feeling of dread and depression as yet another monotonous week is to begin slowly swallows me up as I look out the window, sipping my morning coffee.
I wave back at the postman tiredly, watching through blood-sharped, half-closed eyes as Mrs. Morrison steadily keeps gnawing his neck. For an old hag halfway between her eighties and a tombstone, she certainly seems to enjoy the taste of human flesh, clearly identified through the loud growls she lets out during her meaty breakfast.
Personally, I prefer cereal.
Postman Tom finally quiets down as his life seeps away, bringing back the familiar status quo of silence into the neighborhood. I give a moment of thought who would bring the daily mail from now on, but my thoughts are rudely interrupted as Mrs. Morrison lets out the most blood-curling scream I've ever heard from an old woman with lung-cancer. Not quite the most articulate one at that, if I might add.
As the last few gulps of my morning elixir runs down my throat, I can see a small welcoming committee beginning to form outside. Mrs. Morrison and several more of my darling neighbors inched towards my humble home, quickly working their way through the fairly high fences. They don't quite seem to approve of the barbed wire on top though. It's nice to see so many folk so early on though, especially on a normally gloomy Monday. Even little Junior has come to play, albeit that strands of hair stuck between his teeth make me wonder whether he had eaten his favorite cat, perhaps.
Knowing it is wholly customary to greet them appropriately, I turn away from the window and waddle up the stairs to my room. I can hear them banging at the door downstairs, which makes me feel guiltily rude for making them wait. Invigorated by the strong black substance, I quickly jump into some preferably clean clothes, although most of them were already tainted with more or less amounts of a certain red liquid. The moment I adjust my glasses, I hear someone crashing through the window, finally sparking some annoyance in me. Had I let them in from the start, I wouldn't have to bother looking for repairs, later today.
As I rummage through my drawers to find a suitable welcoming gift for my dearest neighbors, I find myself whistling a silly little song. The people downstairs to their best to sing along, but the inarticulate shrieks really contrast to my gentle, if slightly sharp whistles. Imagining myself as a donkey for a moment, I kick back to close the door behind me, as I didn't wish to embarrass myself in front of them with such a dirty room. I should honestly wash my clothes one of these days, but genetic male laziness will probably prevent me once again.
A smile forms upon my weary face as I finally come across the object I wished to find. I inhale, not wishing to break this almost sacred moment as I gently run my hand along this beautiful piece of art, worthy of all mortal and divine praise.
Such fine craftsmanship condensed into a 11 inch diameter cast-iron wonder, its side low enough to reinforce its perfection. The flawless handle fits into my hand easily, but firmly. Once I strengthen my grip over it just once, it never lets go, staying with me as a loving pet just as much as a sturdy, although slightly heavy companion.
I almost lose myself in its beauty like always, watching my smirk reflected upon the last bit of shiny surface. The rest of it had sadly been tainted by now, although nothing a good scrubbing job wouldn't fix eventually.
"You'll be beautiful again my dear, I promise." I find myself purring to the piece of metal cookware in my hand, only to be rudely interrupted by thuds and groans, as my neighbors had gotten bored of waiting and were doing their best to race up the stairs to me.
I shrug and sigh, shaking my head slightly. I couldn't really be angry at them, mostly because even though we've gotten into some arguments over the years, they were still my lovely, if slightly maniacal, homicidal, decaying and thoroughly crazed neighbors. Taking the initiative, I turned to the door and opened it up to greet them appropriately, my hand unconsciously swinging forward to act as the most perfect invitation one could imagine...