A Monster Was Born ✔️

The Notes Remain Untouched (Part II)

In the following weeks, she is always busy. She works constantly, as soon as she gets home after school: gathering her enemy's secrets, figuring out her weaknesses, and writing them down in the journals she has stored. Finally, the pages have a purpose.

She tells me she now listens in on every conversation she and Mark have, even when it pains her to hear Mark being happy with someone other than her. Sometimes she even talks to her as though they were friends, all to gain needed information. One day when the enemy walked away from her desk, she was able to glance down at her phone and saw her name, even though she knew it already. Laurie had been in love with Mark just as much as she was. It showed in her texts, the two of them completely oblivious to her hatred of them.

As she learns more about Laurie, she writes more. The notes blind her eyes until all she could see are her own tears. I encourage that. Mercy at this point would be a weakness, I tell her. Do what you must to make your visions complete.

On these types of dark days, I try to remember the memories we share and hold on to any feelings I have. She was only 14 when she first bought me from that store. Her mother wanted to give her a special present at the start of high school and so she took her to the streets of an urban neighborhood and went into any store that attracted attention. I was a pretty notebook with a pink cover decorated with white dots, but I knew the other notebooks were even more extravagant than me. When she came in, I saw her small, round face, the dark hair whipping around her sides as she bounced with excitement, the light brown coat she had and the scarf wrapped around her neck. The look she had was pure but her eyes were lined with stress, as though the pressure of high school was already getting to her.

"Remember, you can only pick one item," her mother had said with a smile on her face.

Her daughter's eyes scanned the room before coming up to the notebook aisle. She looked at the one next to me, which had cartoon cats drawn with simplicity on its cover against a pale yellow background, and the one above me, which had white lines against a light blue cover. When she chose me out of the bunch and her mom paid for her to keep me, it was when I thought I knew happiness for the first time.

Today, when she finishes writing, she continues to sit there, her hand trembling.

"It's done," she whispers.

She signs Laurie's full name on the back of the front cover and shows it to me. The handwriting in the book, I am told, matches Laurie's perfectly, as are all the recorded events. The only difference is that, in it, Laurie's other would-be thoughts are revealed. She is secretly just using Mark. She doesn't care about him. She cheated on Mrs.Goldman's calculus exam. She secretly spent time with other guys. She hates men who like anime. She thinks vanilla ice cream is better than chocolate.

All these thoughts are lies that my owner made up and rewritten as Laurie's. But it doesn't matter if they are false or not. It only matters if Mark believes them. If he does, maybe the stories will sing true, after all.

She packs the notebook and goes to bed. Tomorrow, she says, will be a good day. It will be remembered as a day when justice is fulfilled, a day she gains back what is meant to be hers. With those thoughts, she falls asleep.

I expect her to come home smiling in triumph, spoils of war in her bag, a glamorous tale of revenge and getting back what's hers but maybe I expect too much.

Because when she arrives at the doorstep that day, it is with blood on her hands. Crimson blood, staining her hands and the edges of her skirt. Police sirens ringing in her head. Her expression, a face of shock and horror and disgust rolled into one.

She keeps murmuring the same words over and over, "I killed him...I killed him..I killed him." before she collapses on the floor. I cry out, begging her to get up, please get up, what happened? She's shaking badly now, sweat building on every inch of her body. She reaches for me and writes down three words: It was a mistake.

If I were a human, my heart would be pounding. She killed Mark, but why? Her life would be ruined, decaying in a small jail cell, unable to go to college or get a good job.

Then I remember, that day when she first bought me from that store. Her smile indicated she was happy; her embrace signaled I was the only one for her. But after me, she went to that same store again and again, and bought a notebook of every type, every color, every note. And they all sat in her closets, waiting for her.