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Violent Spells This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

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My friend is reading Seventeen aloud to me. I hate her voice. I grind my teeth. Hate her. I slap her as hard as I can, and her zits pop, she falls off her bed, her glasses shatter, and a red hand is branded into her cheek, where her zits were. Her red zit remains oozed over it, along with her tears. I giggle.

“What the hell?!” she yelled. “Why would you do that?!”

Back to reality. My friend is still reading Seventeen to me, her zits are still there.

I have had to deal with this my entire life. The violent spells. The urges I have to hurt people. It isn’t like an itch you want to scratch. It’s like not eating or drinking for days and seeing a feast full of your favorite foods and nothing stopping you from devouring it. Except in real life, there are consequences.
In kindergarten, my mom held my hand and brought me to a big baby- blue room. There were so many children, more than I’d ever seen together. Some of them were playing nicely, but most of them were throwing things and screaming. I held my mom’s hand like a lifeline. She forced me to let go and I watched her walk away.

I didn’t cry. I opened my backpack and brought out my favorite book, Matilda. I walked to a small rug on the floor and held the book to my face and read.

Some boys came over and stared at me. I ignored them.

“Are you readin’? What is that?” they asked.

I kept the book up to my face and said, “Matilda.”

“Lemme see it! I wanna try!” One of them took my book and they stared at my face.

“My dog has eyes like that!” he squealed.

They threw my book at my face.

I didn’t cry. I put my book down, found two pencils, and thrust them into one of the boys’ ears. He screamed and blood came out of his ears.

I didn’t say I felt sorry- I wasn’t sorry. I was happy. I felt so powerful, so brave, I felt like a hero.

I never forgot that feeling, that heroic feeling, that feeling of doing something right.

“I have to go,” I interrupted my friend. I still wanted to hurt her. Get that good feeling…

“I have to go,” I said again.

“You were supposed to sleep over.”

“Something came up.”

“How would you know? You didn’t check your phone or anything.”

“I remembered I have to babysit tonight. Sorry.”

“Just call and say you’re sick.”

“I’m saving up for a car.”

We were silent for a few minutes.

She murmured something.


“Never mind,” she said. “Just go.”

I said good- bye to her mom and biked home. I opened the door to my house. My mom was watching T.V. on the couch. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows.

“I thought you were sleeping over at Cosette’s house,” my mom questioned.

“Something came up,” I said.

“Okay,” she said. Her eyes drifted back to her show.

I walked up the stairs and went into my room. I opened up my closet.

Behind the clothes and hangers, I kept a box. I opened it.

My people dolls.

Whenever I have a violent spell, I create a doll for whomever it’s directed at and how they would look after I was done with them.

I have dolls of my classmates, friends, and family. Shot, cut, amputated, branded, and one’s head is stuck between two pipes. This will be my first of Cosette. I use cream cloth for her skin, and black thread for her hair. I use wire for her glasses. I stuff her with bright red cotton and thin the cloth at her cheeks to make them rosy, and I poke holes on her cheeks for the pimples. She is finished. Almost. I sew a handprint outline on her right cheek and cut it out. I pull out the red cotton for the bloody zit remains. I bend her glasses. I sew a baby blue tear under her eye.

The heroic feeling came. I was doing something right. My heart fluttered. I put the doll back in the box, the box back in the closet, and I fell asleep smiling.

I have friends from school. I talk to people; I’m not socially awkward. But I don’t go on dates. Guys aren’t really interested in me, and I’m not interested in them. But today, a guy came up to me. Tall, curly blond hair, tan skin, and he was wearing shorts even though it was only March. He smelled liked salt.

“Hi,” he said. His voice reminded me of a giant’s.

“Hi,” I said.

He walked beside me for a while, and we didn’t say anything. When we were at my locker I asked,

“Why are you… um, here? I mean, with me, and talking to me?”

“Do you want me to go away?”

“Yes,” I said. I did, this was weird.

He started to walk away.

“Wait!” I yelled. That sounded desperate.

“Yeah?” he turned back.

“Why were you talking to me?”

He shrugged. “To be friendly.” He walked away.

I found out his name was Jean, Jean Valjean. I liked his name, the same as the heroic convict in Les Miserables. He kept talking to me through the week, and things became less awkward. He has two brothers, his parents are divorced, and he has a crescent- shaped scar on his left ankle because he ran into a sprinkler. One day, he said,

“Will you go somewhere with me on Saturday?” he asked.

“No, I have a history paper due the Monday after,” I said. He kept bringing it up, week after week, until it got exhausting to deal with.

“Okay!” I exclaimed on the seventh week. “I’ll go!”

“Good!” he said. “I’ll pick you up at eight A.M.!” And he walked off.

I put off figuring out what to wear until seven on Saturday. I already put on my makeup, but I don’t have anything to wear! Nothing good anyway. Seven- thirty came and I panicked. I chose a plain red dress. Jean came at seven- thirty exactly. He was wearing dirty clothes.

“You look nice,” he said.

“So do you,” I said. He held my hand until we got to his car. He opened the door.

“After you,” He said.

“Thanks,” I said. We drove off.
I watched him drive. His hands were huge, and so were his arms. Then it hit me. I hadn’t had a violent spell since I met him…

My heart fluttered. I was doing something right. I smiled at him.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

He smiled at me. Big white teeth. “It’s a surprise!”

We pulled up at a place called “Uncle Tom’s Tomato Farm.” There were so many green plants, it all seemed to mesh together to form one giant bush. It was boiling outside; if it were a little hotter the road- kill would burn.

“Why are we here?” I asked.

“To pick tomatoes!” he said. He smiled and led me into the bushes.

“Don’t we need to pay or something?” I asked.

“No, my uncle runs this place. Just go in.”

We walked in the thick bushes until we saw specks of red. Jean didn’t say anything to me, he just started picking. So did I. After a few minutes, this was becoming monotonous.

“Jean, this isn’t fun,” I said. “Let’s go get lunch or something.”

He turned toward me with a tomato in his hand. He squished it, and threw it at me.


“Are you going to do anything about it?”

I picked up a tomato and threw it at him.
“You need to squish it first, or else they’re hard as rocks!”

I squeezed another tomato, and all the juices got on my face. I threw it at him, he threw another one at me, and it turned into an all-out war, until Jean finally said,

“You win! You win!” I laughed and hugged him.

“I should take you home,” Jean said. “Your mom probably hates me already for keeping you out this late.”

“Okay,” I said. We walked out of the bushes and got into his car.

“This’ll make a mess,” he said as he sat down in the car.

“Want help cleaning it tomorrow?” I offered.

“No, I’ll do it.”

He drove me home and said goodbye. Then he just drove off.

The next morning, I went on Facebook to change my status to in a relationship. I checked Jean’s profile to see if he changed his as well. He didn’t and there were new pictures on his wall. They were titled, “A Date with a Sociopath.” There were pictures of me, looking crazed, soaked in red, pictures of his bruised chest.
I knew what happened.
I ran into the attic and grabbed my dad’s shotgun. I ran out of the house before my mom question me.
I arrived in the school and saw Jean.
“Jean!” I screamed. He looked at me and I pulled the trigger. A perfect shot to the head.
The rest is a blur, all I can remember is the cold of the handcuffs…

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This article has 3 comments. Post your own now!

ThisLife said...
Sept. 16, 2012 at 9:14 pm
This was a great storyline. Even though i knew there would be some type of shooting I was still shocked by the ending.
ObbsessiveBookwormThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
Aug. 11, 2012 at 6:27 pm
Wow. This is really good! I like the idea of tryng to figure out why people do things like that, and I think you did it really well.
Prose replied...
Aug. 15, 2012 at 4:13 pm
Thank you!  My friend's brother was a victim in a shooting...
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