This is a big departure from my usual stories. This piece is dark and heavy and I offer a few trigger warnings: bullying, suicide, child loss. With that said, this was an excellent writing exercise that stretched me far outside my comfort zone. If you choose to read it, I would greatly appreciate any feedback. This fiction stuff is all so new to me, but I’m truly enjoying exploring this side of writing!
The original prompt: “A serial killer tries to justify his crimes.” The assignment was a 60-word story. I thought it might be a good chance to stretch a bit without too big of a commitment. Then–surprise–the next assignment was to expand the 60 words into 1,000. Oops! What did I get myself into? The first paragraph is a version of that original assignment. The remainder is the second. I’d love to hear your thoughts.
I don’t kill because I enjoy it. No. Everyone would misunderstand if they knew me. But they don’t know anything, because I’m invisible. They don’t even see me anymore. For all they see, I’m just hands slinging sloppy joes day in and day out. But they’re not invisible. Not at all. I see every single cruelty the bullies dish out. And it may be the last thing they ever see, but eventually I’m not invisible anymore.
Not that I mind living my life unseen. I wear my invisibility like a favorite blanket, heavy and warm. It allows me to conduct my grave business with the utmost efficiency. That’s how I see it—this is my job, my duty. This isn’t some perverse hobby or a middle-aged onset of psychosis. This is my calling. It’s a calling I feel uniquely equipped to walk in.
You see, I’m not unfamiliar with the harassment and torture of bullies. I have had a front row seat to the utter destruction of this specific brand of torment. It’s the slowest death of all when the mind and heart are daily poisoned. The soul eventually succumbs to the inevitable pull of promised peace in release from this earthly life.
So really, the justice I serve is so much more merciful than they deserve. Mine is quick and relatively painless, except for the moment realization dawns in their eyes just as the life drains from them. That’s when I whisper two names. The first belongs to the child being avenged. The second one—well, I’m not quite ready to share just yet.
She looks up from her notebook where she has been writing these words.
It’s a confession of sorts. The lined pages are blotched with tear stains. She didn’t realize she’d been crying. She was surprised there were any tears left after all this time. If she could have saved them, the kitchen shelves would be lined with them floor to ceiling.
It wasn’t always like this. She wants everyone to know that, so she picks up the pen again.
When I first began working in the high school cafeteria, it was the best part of my life. I loved seeing the faces of the precious students every day. I found such joy in encouraging them with a smile and an extra helping of mashed potatoes if they seemed sad. I took special notice of students with unpaid lunch accounts, and I spent every spare cent in my meager paycheck to bring accounts back into black. I kept a backpack or two on hand to fill with bread, peanut butter, and granola bars to send home with those same students. No child goes hungry if I can help it.
It wasn’t until my own child was a student at the high school that I first learned how cruel those precious angels could be. My sweet boy came into these halls as a happy, hopeful honors student. He was an old soul who was kind to all, loved animals and history, and was a gifted artist. His only crime? His mother was the lunch lady.
For some unfathomable reason, being a lunch lady had been declared embarrassing and uncool. Therefore, my precious son was marked as the official target for any student looking to build themselves up by tearing others down.
My happy boy seemed to wither before my very eyes. Every day, he seemed smaller and grayer as if he were folding in on himself and fading from view. He never complained to me. Not once. Even as his own heart was slowly dying inside his body, he wanted to protect mine. And he did. Until the day he didn’t wake up for school and I found him next to an empty pill bottle.
A guttural, animal-like sob escapes her throat, and she throws the pen across the room as she stands to pace.
This is too much, she thinks. No one could reasonably expect a human heart to survive this.
She would tell you she did not survive. Not in her original form. Her heart shut down that dark day and she hasn’t been aware of a single beat since. Like a terrifying aberration of metamorphosis, she has emerged from her chrysalis not as a beautiful butterfly, but as a monster. Only a monster would wish death on children, she thinks.
She grabs another pen from the table and continues her writing.
For Ryan.
This is the second name I whisper to the condemned as their sentences are carried out. Because for every child I observe being targeted by the bullies, I only see my Ryan. I can only think of saving another parent from this zombie-like existence as my body continues to walk the earth, but my heart and mind and soul are with my lost child.
Somewhere a timer begins to ding. She looks up from her writing, taking a second to orient herself to the cozy room filled with warm sunlight and cheerful houseplants.
“That’s time, Marta,” the therapist says. “How do you feel about this exercise? Were you able to purge the dark thoughts you mentioned last week? I just want to remind you that it’s perfectly normal to have dark fantasies after experiencing the kind of trauma you’ve been through.”
Marta walks to the window and looks out at the busy street below, filled with people continuing to walk and breathe and live as if the world hadn’t stopped turning on its axis. How could they not notice there was now a gaping chasm?She walks over to the tastefully decorated coffee table and hands the notebook to her therapist. Marta can tell the hopeful young woman wants so badly to help. She feels a twinge of compassion for her. But Marta knows no one can help her now. Yes, this was all just a therapeutic exercise to this earnest therapist. But to Marta? It feels a bit more like a recipe for revenge.
The truck eased off the highway and came to a stop in a cloud of dust. It was day five of our cross-country road trip, towing our new home behind us, and our tank was nearing empty—both literally and figuratively. Nevada stretched before us, reaching as far as our eyes could see. A narrow ribbon of road crossed an ocean of sand and scrubby sagebrush, eventually fading into the edge of a shimmering horizon. You could practically smell the heat on the dry breeze. It felt like trying to breathe with a hairdryer blowing in your face.
This One Tiny Life by Ashley Doyle Pooser 