Puzzle, Painting, Sinister

3 things to inspire 1 story written in 20 minutes. #story320
words/phrase provided by @ninajo47

1,000 pieces of a painting scattered around on the floor. With my stunted attention span, there may as well be 50,000 pieces of this puzzle.

I’m not amused but my girlfriend and her family love puzzles, so for tonight, I love puzzles.

Fast forward to hour 3 and we’ve got a border, a frame with nothing in the middle but 5 pieces stuck together making up the only red splotch of paint that we can see on the box.

Did I mention that this mystery-in-a-million pieces laid out before us is already on the fucking box?

I’m going crazy!

Time is standing still. A nightmare is emerging before my eyes. Each piece taking on exactly the same size and shape. Nothing fits.

Her dad keeps humming and sighing every ten seconds, like some sort of machine that runs on hums and sighs.

Her mom, at every attempt to connect a piece, says, “What about this one? Nope. We’ll try another I guess.” Every. fucking. time. She says that.

My girlfriends brother, barely able to wipe his ass because of the barrier of muscles like thick ropes all around his body. This walking bell pepper pinches each piece in between his frankfurter-sapien thumb and forefingers. Then he stares at each piece attempting to understand. Koko the sign language monkey was more intelligent.

Then my girlfriend. My sweet girl, bless her heart. Clapping her hands, scrunching her shoulders and giggling every few minutes, saying, “It’s coming together!”

Never had I wanted to pull off my skin, pop out my eyeballs, pry off my toenails–

–Wait a minute, that’s it. The ultimate puzzle. Some one needs to teach these people that it’s not okay to create forgeries made from the pieces of someone else’s masterpiece. The underwhelming feeling of having completed a puzzle, to look at the image you’ve spent days to possibly years creating and compare it to the box.

“Yep, look at that.”

Well, I shall have my revenge tonight.

“Excuse me, I need to use the restroom.” I stand up and walk to the hallway. My pocket knife, usually used for opening boxes or prying or scraping, now has a new purpose.

I shall make of myself an impossible puzzle.

I start slowly with my arm, cutting just a small square, then prying off the skin and dropping it, with a wet slap, onto the tile.

This will take me a while but I’ll never need to worry about them doing a puzzle again. It will be unspeakable.

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