I sat in my room staring down at my hands,

I sat in my room staring down at my hands, soaked in deep crimson blood. I looked up again and then thought to myself, "What have I done?"

"Keep it going!" My line supervisor was breathing down my neck. I decided then and there I had it with meat packing. I pulled off my bloody apron. "I've had it with Spam!"

I whipped around angrily only to find my supervisor still standing right there,invading my personal space, now breathing down my shirt collar. I shoved his head into the meatpacker

and shouted at him. "I'm fine!" I yelled at the supervisor. "You don't need to watch my every move." He backed off a bit after that but he still watched warily from the door.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see him tensing as I made each decision, holding back instruction on which folder to put the 2013 draft report into, opening and closing his mou

se's surgery scars was something that he didn't tell people he enjoyed. But it was all right there in the thick folder. I'd done my homework. Now I had him in the crosshairs of

My psychoses. He was squirming and twitching like never before. Three years later, he was insitutionalised. Defenestration was his way of escaping the clutches of Satan, who was

regaling him how things were different in the universe next door because Winston Churchill's mother slept on her right side instead of her left just after having marital relations.

-or bananas, which made him even more uncomfortable. Finally he managed to chew off his own arm and escape. He could hear the man drone on, unaware of the severed arm he now held.