An Attack
by Elizabeth Averay
VILE. FILTHY. UGLY. FAT. PIG. These are just a few of the things people have called me, mostly my former class ‘mates’, and now they expect me to go to a reunion. I won’t be going – but I will send them a gift to remember me by. Something very special. I need to find the perfect surprise.
After much searching I have decided on a three-part spectacle: the first for the teachers that looked the other way; the second for my fellow classmates that enjoyed beating me on a daily basis; and the third for the other kids that bullied and picked on me all the time.
Why, you ask, did they treat me like this? Simple. I was different, I wasn’t thin or smart or rich or willing to be a bully so they took it out on me. Now – now I will let them know exactly how they have shaped me, my life. They will regret everything they did to me, and to any others they tormented.
For the teachers, to start, ground glass in their food or poison in their drinks. Watch them writhe in pain and agony, like I did so many times before. Yes, not a slow death, but also not too fast – make them feel hopeless and helpless.
A small smile plays on my lips at this.
Second, for the former students that physically hurt me. These charming people shall be drugged and taken to a vast maze that I have had specially made. In this labyrinth they will find small metal flying darts, man traps, boiling oil, quicksand, flame throwers, laser-guided weapons, and – the best feature of all – NO EXIT.
My smile is now a full grin.
The third and final part of my surprise is the most simple but very effective. In the ballroom where they are to meet for the reunion I will make sure that the overhead water sprinklers are all connected to enormous vats of acid. Wait til they are all there, then lock the doors, turn the sprinklers on, and watch them slowly melt to nothing more than gooey skeletons.
I am grinning like a devil now as I look at my prison therapist. She says to me, ‘So why did you do all this? Not just the killing but why spend all your money on the maze and the poison and acid, then hand yourself over to the police? What has all this achieved?’
I look at her blandly and reply, ‘Bullies need to be taught that their victims never forget. They grow up, and they will attack.’
Scribble City: Write Now 