I hate it. It's just so ugly. So putrid. Just the thought of it is disgusting to me, but trust me, someday it'll die. Then, we won't have to look at it anymore. No more seeing it every day. No more watching it seducing everyone to believe its lies. Meanwhile, we'll just torture it. Send it hate notes. Show it what we think of it.
Oh, well. I don't want to be its friend. We just hate it so much. It's just so evil.
Look at all those demons swarming around it. Disgusting. Those little evil minions it has. That's all they really are. Evil minions swarming around it, feeding off its putrid evilness.
No. They're its friends. They like being around it because it's nice.
It's just so disgusting. Once they leave, though, I'm sure it's not as powerful as it thinks it is.
I wonder if the counselor will like my new poem. I can repeat my poem from memory:
"Oh come on, it's so easy. You can do it, you can trust me. You know what to do. You know what to look for. Now take it up and push it in. Feel the blood flow on your skin. Now watch the blood fall to the floor. Now go ahead, do some more. Do as much as you want. You'll feel better wait, and see, I understand, you can count on me! Now hurry up, find the cloth; Clean up the mess you just caused. Look at you, look what you've done, and was it just all for fun? Don't you feel better now? See, I don't lie, listen to me! Clean up your mess, your DNA, and meet me again on Wednesday. Same time, same place, I'll sit, and I'll wait. Now remember, and don't forget, Have I let you down yet? I'm your friend so be mine too; Aren't I always here for you?"
She told me to write about anything I wanted.
If she doesn't like my poem, oh well for her. Don't give it to her.
Be nice. Listen to her. She's just trying to help.
I just did what she asked me to do. Now, back to it. I'm going to kill it. I'll wait until it's alone. In the girls' locker room. Yes, that'll do just fine. Wait until it steps into the sauna. Turn up the heat. Jam the door. Listen to its screams.
No, don't kill it.
Yes! No one will be able to help it then! It will be separated from its evil minions. The screams will be like music to my ears. Its brown, short hair that it thinks is so beautiful will get sweaty, and matted. Maybe I should reveal myself to it. Yes, that would be perfect. So I can see the terror in its eyes when it takes its last breath. Then, when it's finally dead, I can stab it. Stab it over, and over, watching the blood fall to the floor. It will be much more satisfying than my blood. Much more!
No, don't do this. It's wrong.
Well, now it's time to open this hideous, green door to the Comfort House counselors office. The counselor always looks the same. Her mouth is moving. She's saying something, but I don't hear anything. Now she's holding out her hand. What is she looking at me like that for? Oh, the poem.
She wants the poem. Give it to her.
No throw it away. Now sit down in the chair in front of her desk. The chair that feels like you're sitting on a slimy, wet slug. Uch! I hate that chair. Oh well. Look at her! Look at the expression on her face! Now that's comedy. I love it when my creations have that affect on people. It's enjoyable, to say the least.
No, it's not. It's disgusting. Listen to her. She wants to help. She cares.
No she doesn't. Oh, look. She's talking again. What is she saying? Oh well. Who really cares? It's just a whole bunch of stuff that she's trying to brainwash into me.
No, she's helping me.
Well, its no use. I can't hear her anyway. Look! What is she doing? Oh, she's calling that parent of mine. That mother. I hate her. She's always drunk, or high, or passed out on the floor in front of the door. How sick. She can't even make it past the door.
No, she just needs help.
If I told counselor, she would help. It's so disgusting how she looks at me with those glazed over eyes, saying things I can't hear. Not that I'm deaf, of course, I just choose not to hear her. To hear anyone. They all say the same things everyone else says, so why listen? I've heard it all before. Oh, the counselor's done. She's getting up, trying to make eye contact. Get up now. Go over to the door, wait for her to open it. Now leave. Ignore her outstretched hand.
No, shake her hand. Smile at her.
Now, finally, I can leave this place. Go home. Back to my wack house with my wack mother and sit alone in my room. No one to bother me, no one to care about me. What am I saying? No one cares about me here!
Oh never mind. Walk, walk, walk. Walk across the street.
Wait, look both ways first!
No I don't want to. Something's wrong. Something's really wrong. I've almost made it across the street. Movement. To my left. What is it? A car. I can't make it. Pain. Dizzy. Wetness. What is it? Blood. Lots, and lots of blood. My leg hurts. Who is that? Oh, it's here. It is looking at me. Pain.
Will it help me? Please, have it help me.
I won't kill it. Please.
No. It's leaving. It's turning away.
No. Come back.Wait. It's turning around again. Yes. It's coming toward me. What it got in its hands?
Not fast enough. Too slow. A blinding flash hurts my head. What are those soft thudding noises? Pain. No ... wait... no more pain. The pain is going away. Can't it go any faster? I want to close my eyes. Wait. It is saying something.
What is it saying?
Too late. I feel calm. Closing my eyes. It feels like I'm sinking.
Just a bit longer.