Misophonia Dinner Hour

Content Warning: Violence, intrusive thoughts, and intense misophonia.

Did he have to choose a fucking diner for this meeting?

I get that this is practically the only neutral turf left in the whole godforsaken town but I would have been fine with someone's overused sex dungeon over this noise-ridden hellscape. This place is fucking teeming with noise as if it was scientifically manufactured to be the most grating place imaginable.

I can hear the chewing of burgers dripping with grease, sugar-caked deserts, and fried potato skins being shorn apart by bone, mushed to slime by saliva, and then shoveled down their oral cavities. I can hear the drinking and guzzling of toxic beer and fattening milkshakes down past their throats and into their gut. I can hear the sound of plates clinking against each other on the way to the kitchen, empty glasses at different pitches, grills flaring up at different intervals, and forks scraping against teeth. I can hear all their fucking breathing, the asthmatic goons, the chain-smoking bartender, and the overworked waitresses all simultaneously participating in that stupid animalistic ritual we're perpetually bound to. I can hear my own breath slowly climbing in tempo in the face of it all.

I swear if I had any less self-control I'd pull a fucking Van Gogh and shoot my own fucking ears off right in front of them and let them bask in the guilt of it all. It doesn't matter how much fucking blood I lose or if the kid in the corner is traumatized for the rest of their life at least it'll be quiet.

"So, Sonny, what's all this about wantin' to get out of the family? I thought things were goin' well? We were making good money, you have a decent house, the police are off our backs, what's the problem? I mean I get that the business isn't the prettiest thing and the job ain't perfect but most things aren't... So what's the problem?"

Johnny's sitting there in his nice sports coat with pristine cufflinks and a Rolex, and a few too many chains with his goons hanging around in all the other booths. Man should know better by now. Walking around with half of a small army and Mansa Musa's wealth all over your body is a sure-fire way to get white ladies complaining to the fuzz about the 'unsavory characters' hanging around at whatever place they feel entitled to that day, and end up getting all of us in hot shit instead of just me or the fall guy. Whatever I'm halfway out the door anyway. Just gotta make it through one last talk with the bastard.

I see him eating that awful well-done stead, dragging his knife through it until it scrapes painfully against the plate. I see his disgusting white jaw opening and closing and the chewed-up flesh bouncing around, bastard can't even be bothered to keep his mouth shut while he chews. It's practically all I can fucking hear. I can feel my foot tapping uncontrollably under the table. I hate this fucking night.

I can see myself grabbing his fucking knife and driving it right through his throat and hearing him gurgle for the last and final time. I'd hate that sound too I'll admit but at least it would stop pretty fast. And once it did the whole world could just fucking relax.

"Listen, it's got nothing to do with the business. I just got a daughter now, and I can't keep risking this shit with the law or having her wind up here. Her mother wants to move out of here anyway, there'd be no point in you having a hitman living thousands of miles away. So, yeah that's it. It's been a good run."

That's the truth, it's not that I'm deeply concerned over the ethics or anything plenty of other businesses deal in death and frankly I've already buried myself so deep in guilt that there's no real way out of hell for me. Frankly, the main reason I agreed to leave for the countryside was cause I'm just flat bored of hanging out with a bunch of wanna be Goodfellas in dingy diners and listening to a bunch of idiot pimps about their horrible ideas and tastes.

God, when will they fucking give me a break? It's like this whole fucking diner is chewing their mouths off right next to my ear and breathing down my neck. I can hear them aspirating dozens of them all at once and feel my blood boiling with every little primal function. I can hear the kid guzzling down the strawberry milkshake the businessman grumbling in the back, the lights flickering overhead, and the cooks in the back sweating on to every patty, fry, and desert they're making. I can feel my hair is standing on end and the sooner I can get out of this shit hole the faster I can make an end to this cacophonous hell they're making.

I swear I'm gonna start a grease fire then bomb the whole place sky until there's nothing left but an empty lot that the wind can peacefully blow past and everything can finally settle. There'd be no more pain and no more fear and no more loathing. And everything just once can be quiet, even if it has to take all that pain.

"Alright, well you know we can't just let you go so easy. We gotta make sure the money's in all the right places, all the ducks are in a row, that there's a replacement, that you're not gonna talk, this and that. We obviously gotta negotiate the terms and..."

Of course I fucking know that. What does he think I'm quitting on my first day? Just over his shoulder, I can see two of his goons eating and pushing each other back and forth in their black coats and their nicotine-stained hands. At least this one has the courtesy to keep his mouth shut when he eats. He's looking towards me now with a shit-eating grin.

Holy shit he's started chewing with his mouth open while he looks right into my fucking eyes. They know, don't they? They know how much this whole fucking ordeal pisses me off and they're using it to try to trap me in here because they're too lazy or shitty at their jobs to get a new fucking hitman. They know that every fucking sound is just gonna enrage or scare me even more so they think they can get a fucking rise out of me and make me trip up or rush out of here. Or maybe they just get a kick out of torturing me, how sick. You're supposed to make it quick, clean, and quiet. I'm trying to get out of here and these young fuckers without any class or moral compass think it's okay to do this shit. Do they have any idea what it's like to be surrounded by torture devices in everyday sounds or to feel your blood rise through your body every time you try to get away from these sounds and they just come right back?

Well, if they want to see a fucking rise out of me I could show them what a fucking rise looks like.

I take the revolver right out of my belt holster and shoot fat Johnny right in the fucking forehead and watch his blood spray on the upholstery and the fucker right behind him and listen to him go quiet and when the little goon starts swearing I'll shoot him too. That'll show them I can't be backed into the corner over some noise. I'm not a fucking slave to my fear and I'm not a tool to be used by them. They can't play with me in death. I've been through more shit and been backed into corners to wind up in this job in the first place they can be quiet.

A fork hits a plate at the back of the diner.

Holy shit, they are quiet. And there's blood on my shirt.

I actually did it, I shot them. They're both dead now. I didn't want to do it, I didn't mean to do it, I get these thoughts all the time I'm more deliberate than this I don't actually, no this isn't who I am. I was just... the sounds, they were everywhere. Holy shit, I'm hyperventilating. Everybody's quiet I'm the only one breathing. I'm the only one making noise now.

Jesus, what the fuck am I gonna do. Their bodies are quiet but their minds are probably racing. Recording every last one of my features, wondering if I'm also gonna shoot them, thinking about how they are gonna call the cops, and how they are gonna get out of here. They're never gonna forget this. And for the rest of their lives they're gonna breath quickly in their sleep and scream at therapists about me making that same awful noise we're all condemned to make. And I'm just standing there like a fucking idiot regretting the thing he just did. I'm never gonna see my daughter again. I was trying to get out of this because of her and I've fucked it all up. All because I couldn't stomach one crowded meal. I lost control, I hurt people, their plan fucking worked. I can never leave this business now. But I don't think they even realized how much it fucking hurt, not just tonight but every time I have to sit down and hear this shit from everybody and everything all the fucking time. How every organ in my body flares up in response to everything, all at once. It's enough to make anybody think what I thought just to make it all silent for once. But the difference is I actually did it.

But now everything is quiet, and I can still feel everything inside of me burn.