Painkiller

I go to the toilet and there's a baby otter in the bowl. I slam the lid but it's too late, it saw the magazine in my hand.

Karate kick the door shut, seal all the exits. I grab the toilet brush and flip the lid back up. The otter feigns indifference, but I can see a small dictaphone in its pocket. It's all over the 6 o'clock news.

I stab down with the brush missing by all the width of a lie spoken out loud. Too wily, too wiry. Sleeves rolled high, I hold my breathe and lunge, fighting for the soap in a bathtub. It's so soft in my hands, feels like clay. I squeeze until it stops thrashing, wring the life out of the cloth, wring out all the dirty water.

Breathing in ragged gasps, gotta hide the evidence. The horror climbs my spine hand over bloody hand. What was I trying to do? My girlfriend walks in, the thrashing has awoken her. I turn away but it's too late, she's seen the fecal matter coating my hands, arms.

Karate kick the door shut