Consumed

Consumed

Vengeance; what an interesting concept. To hold on to all the negative feelings that have been holding you hostage. To keep the rage burning, until it consumes you and it’s all you can do to keep yourself from going mad. I remember when I fell prey to that tantalising curse. I know what I know now because of this experience, although I would be better off without it.

Kylie Fairmont; the creator of my hell. We were best friends in school, for about 10 years, right up until we hit year 12 and she changed. We changed. Anyway, as all tales of wretchedness start, this one began with a boy; his name was Stephen Wills, and he was the most gorgeous boy in school. He was smart, and funny and every girl’s dream guy, including me, and including Kylie.

So you think you can see where this is going, right? We fight over this guy, neither of us gets him and we destroy our friendship forever? Wrong. This actually started out as a very good story, I got the guy, Kylie was fine with it, and everything was peachy. Well, I thought she was fine with it. It turns out that she felt betrayed, because I was with him and she wasn’t, she felt that neither of us should have had him. When I told her that nothing was coming between me and him, she went crazy.
She spread posters and sent letters to the school newsletter, telling everyone about a horrible experience I had, spinning it so Stephen would hate me, along with everyone else. For years I had wanted to be an actor, I participated in every production I possibly could. So three years ago, I got this part in a movie. They told me it was just an ordinary movie; I signed the contract, and legally bound myself to participate in it. When I got there it turned out to be a movie in which no-one wore clothes, I had signed onto a pornographic film. Because of the contract, I couldn’t leave; I legally had to do it. Of course, Kylie neglected to mention that. Obviously, Stephen was disgusted; he called me names, which, considering the circumstances, I would say are pretty self-explanatory, I don’t need to spell them out. Then he dumped me.

So I was left with nothing, everyone tormented me, I had lost Kylie, and Steve hated me. No matter what I said, or how much I tried to explain myself, Stephen wouldn’t listen to me, he pushed me away and as a result, so did the rest of the school. I held my head high and ignored everything, I used my acting skills to pretend I wasn’t completely broken inside, and burning up with hatred. I did really well, until one day I turned the corner and saw Kylie, with Steve, my Steve, she was clearly flirting, and I snapped.

I went home and found all the photos of us, cut her out, and mutilated them with thumb tacks, and knives and scissors. Then I got the biggest one, cut my arm slightly, and wrote “DIE” across her smiling face. Then I cut a big cross, right where her heart was, and put it in her mail box.
When I went to school the next day, I found great satisfaction from the fear in her eyes when she saw me. She approached me and asked why I did it. I played dumb and when the police came, told them I had no reason to hate her, I had forgiven her for what she had done to me, and now that I was liberated from secrets, I could live an honest life. Oh, the benefits of being an actor, they believed me, even Kylie was convinced, the fool. I continued my double life; liberated, sweet girl by day, vengeance driven madman by night.

I couldn’t control the rage that ripped through me at the thought of her, no matter how much I tried. My only thoughts concerned her and her slow, painful, messy demise by my hands. My parents started getting worried when I stopped eating. I had no appetite, except for revenge. I told them I was fine, which seemed to worry them more. “I’m fine,” it’s funny how those words inspire more fear than reassurance. I didn’t care. I started failing all my classes. I didn’t care. I got really skinny, looked gaunt and ghostly. I didn’t care, I only ate what would keep me sustained; I’d eat properly when she was dead. This went on for months, me, consumed by hate, and a maniacal drive to hurt her. I would stalk her endlessly, taking deep satisfaction in her increasing fear. No-one suspected me, I was too sick, and sweet, to hurt anyone.

Finally, I got my chance. I remember it was raining, she was in the parking lot outside the shops on a Friday night, smoking. Alone. I came up behind her, and with deceptive strength, pulled her around the back, silencing her screams with my hands. I dropped her and gagged her so she couldn’t scream. My face was shadowed and I watch as she searched the darkness frantically, trying to identify her attacker. She still had her cigarette, I took it, ripped off her shirt and bra, lent close, and whispered to her, “for every time, I cried over you,” I pressed the still burning cigarette into her stomach, just above her navel, delighted by her muted screams. “For every time you tortured me,” lifted it, re lit it and pressed it just below her ribcage. “For every person who tormented me,” in between her breasts “for every time you stomped on my heart, you will pay.” I pushed in down, hard, above her left breast, right over her heart. Then I lifted her up and threw her into the wall, rage clouding my vision and thoughts. All plans of a cold, calculated attack, gone. I screamed at her, “You ruined me! All I can think of is you! You torment my dreams! You interrupt my thoughts! I hate you with ever fibre of my being, and I WILL DESTROY YOU!” I threw her back onto the pavement, picked up a near by rock and smashed it into her face, again and again. Then I stopped, looked at what I had done, and laughed. All I could do was laugh. It was finally done. My head was clear. It was done. My cackles turned into tears, then screams. What had I done? I thought this is what I wanted, but I was wrong. She hadn’t destroyed me, I had destroyed me. I had let the rage, the fury; consume me until it was me. I was just a shell, a machine bent on revenge, and now that purpose was fulfilled, I had nothing, I was nothing. I’m still nothing.

I feel no anger anymore, no fear, no happiness, and no remorse. I’m empty now, a hotel with nothing but vacancy. I can still remember her face, as lent in close, just before I killed her. The recognition in her eyes, when she saw me, then the fear, then nothing. Vengeance is an interesting thing, it can consume you. If  had let go, I wouldn’t be here, I would be miserable, yes, but at least I would feel something, anything. At least I would be something.
So now I am lying here, talking to you while you make your little notes. Tell me, doctor, am I crazy?