Fragile

If you are reading this, don’t feel sorry for me. It’s funny that you would be worried about little old’ me, but I’m ok, really. Sympathy is something you and I have no use for, so we might as well get on with this story. If you are reading this, I am long gone by now. Any good murderer knows that you can’t stick around the crime scene long. Not like the police could arrest me anyway. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I need to wrap this up quickly before they find me. 
When the shattered mirror shard cut into my face, I had been wishing I would die. That is the purpose of suicide after all. Instead, I was turned into this. I awoke with a great sense of anger in my chest. I was furious in more ways than one, and somebody needed to pay. I stood up and left, but my body didn’t. I felt sorry for my mother, but I had something more important on my mind: a boy. Obviously, what else would a 15-year-old girl have her mind on?  
I was lost, however, when I first changed. I didn’t understand the pull of fate in my heart. I wasn’t willing to accept what I had become. I saw my reflection in a puddle once. The ever shifting, ever changing mirror shards that make up my face reflected, spiraling into a kaleidoscope of glinting glass and misshapen features. My face is never the same anymore, nothing ever where it should be. Ashen hair fell in tangled clumps around my shoulders. I looked like a monster. But we all know that it’s what inside you that makes you a monster. That doesn’t do much for my case, however. I learned to accept my new features in time and found that they can be quite useful. Any young woman knows how much power a good fear factor over someone can have. I know this all too well. 
Take a wild guess where I am right now. Behind you? Oh, no, good guess though. I am standing outside the window of a house I was in just one week ago. It was loud then, and the air felt too thick to breathe. Music pounded in my ears while alcohol blurred the lines of reality. Just your run-of-the-mill average white kids playing rebel. Why I went is a mystery, but what I do remember is his face. I was wasted, and he knew it. No one ever believes the girl that’s been drinking. I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn’t. Every single detail of his drunk grimace and clouded, vicious eyes is forever burned onto my eyelids (wherever they are). I could have tried to fight, tried to scream, tried... something. But I drifted home, smashed the mirror, and defiled myself in a way I had control over. Now I plan to do the same to him. 
Shhhhh! He’s home now! This is too exciting! I’ve never killed someone before besides, well, myself. Hey! What did I say about the pity? 
I think he is asleep. I don’t have to unlock the window; the glass lets me in freely. One of the perks of being dead. I’m standing over him now. The memories of that night are overwhelming. I don’t know if I can do this. But I have to. I was turned into this for a reason, and that reason is to kill. To kill him, his family, and every boy out there who thinks he holds dominion over a girl’s body. I’m clutching the glass shard I brought with me so hard, it’s cutting my hand. I raise my weapon like a priest at a sacrifice. Except this lamb is blemished. 
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Zachary Thompson was found dead this morning, the cause of death being the multiple stab wounds on his chest and the deep, jagged carves in his face. A suspect has not yet been found, though police believe it may be connected to the suicide of Olivia Bowen (age 15) last week and the multiple assault allegations against young Mr. Thompson. More on this story as it develops.
Category:Beings
Category:Crime