Not Such A Joke

You hear the familiar 'ca-chunk' as the machine clangs to life. You're cautious to step away quickly, but you feel the familiar warmth. You inhale deeply, and smell the fresh scent of blood.
You sit for a moment, not thinking, just relaxing. This one looks like a fighter, and you need your energy. Her face is beautiful, perfect mouth, perfect eyes, perfect life. She's the prom queen, the head cheerleader, the girlfriend of the football team's quarterback. Her friends torment you constantly, you're not good enough for them. Just another random boy, not a football player, nothing special. She's staring at you, she's afraid, she's confused.
You stand up and slowly walk out the door, almost forgetting to lock it. You live alone, in the middle of the woods, but you never know who might come by.
As you walk through the front door, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror; you're not that bad looking, shaggy brown hair, average height, not fat and not scrawny. You don't understand why they hate you, don't understand why your nice brown hair and white t-shirt and splattered with blue paint. As you walk past the dining room, you don't understand why there's a basket filled with toilet paper on the table, which you pulled off your house just this morning. They don't know who they're messing with, you think. They'll be confused when the fifth student goes missing in a year, the second cheerleader. The others were of little significance- random kids who were in the wrong place at the worst time.
You get to your room and open your door. You see the newspaper clippings all hung up, and make a mental note to take them down and burn them.
You open the drawer and pull out your gloves, putting them on, ready to go. You return to the garage where the cheerleader still sits, and start untying her. She was confused before, but you see that now she understands. She's afraid, and for the first time, you have control over her. You control her future, you are fighting back.
You untie all but her hands, leaving the tape over her mouth. You push her towards the machine, you hear her muffled screams of protest. You smile and laugh, and say that words you've heard so many times from her, her friends, her boyfriend.
"Are you scared, dork? Trust me, you should me."
And with that, you shove her forward, listening to her scream, watching her flesh being torn apart, watching her blood splatter across the walls, the same way in which the paint splashed on to you this morning. But if she manages to look at her attacker, she won't see a group of cheerleaders and football players. She'll see her torment-ee, not so helpless now.
Tomorrow her friends will attack again, and two days later one of them will agree to giving you a ride home, thinking she'll get an extra chance to humiliate and hurt you in your time alone. She might pretend to flirt, or pretend to hit a tree to hear you scream, or open your door for you only to slam it in your face- it's always something different.
You'll tell her you have something for her in your kitchen, ask her to come in, and she'll follow, thinking it's some dorky love letter that she can later laugh about with her friends, proving that you're an even bigger loser than they thought.
You'll ask her to wait in the living room while you go get it, and she will. You'll go get your rope and duct tape, your 'supplies' as you call them, and you'll go out the back door and back through the front so you're behind her. You'll jump on her, and you will be in control again.
The same thing will keep happening. It's a vicious circle, one the cheerleaders could easily end, and not always quite the same. It's not always a cheeleader, sometimes a random girl who was there when you were ready to explode.
You'll never be caught, you know that, you're too good. You're the high school joke, and no one think you're capable of even defending yourself, let alone being a murderer.
MurdererThe word sends chills down your spine. [I]That is what I am.[/I] You know. You understand. You're not proud of what you are, but you will accept it.
Besides; they deserve it.





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