Oddball

Chapter Nine

RHEA

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It was Sunday night and I had English tomorrow and I hadn't done that freaking poem for Ms Grey. Why was it, that after everything that had happened, I still had homework? It hardly seemed fair. I suppose it wasn't Ms Grey's fault; she didn't know anything past the death of Sam. 

"Well shit." I muttered under my breath as I climbed out of my bed. I just wanted to sleep! With a sigh I stepped over to my over sized white-wood desk and began to search for a blank scrap of paper amongst the mess. the rest of my room was relatively neat; books stacked in my bookshelf, a few precious possessions lined up on my chest of draws where my clothes were mostly folded inside. Yeah, I also had a epic floordrobe and a messy desk, but I still know where everything is.

Pulling a pen and a notebook towards myself, I stared morbidly at the blank page, tapping impatiently on the desk. My mirror mirror idea no longer seemed appealing or relevant for that matter. So much had happened since then that writing about my odd looks was selfish to consider. So that left me with a problem; what to write?

I put pen to paper and let the somewhat meaningful words flow irregularly out of my head;

Mirror mirror

Can you see?

Can't you see what he's done to me?

Mirror mirror,

Do you know?

Don't you know he's brought me such sorrow?

Mirror mirror,

Have you heard?

Haven't you heard they've been practically murdered?

Mirror mirror

On the wall

You watch over us all

Well, I suppose it'll do, although I know it's pretty bad. But - and geez, how shocking - I can't focus on anything. My hatred for Peter is consuming me, its fire licking at my insides. Publicly humiliating him just doesn't appeal to me anymore; it sounds like he's getting off lightly. I want to hurt him. Really hurt him. He shouldn't live after what he's done. He killed Sam, raped me, handed Lisabeth a death sentence. He cheated on Ruby, whilst there is no love lost between us, it's still wrong. 

I know that I told Micah that orchestrating a punch up was pointless. And it is. Even Micah doesn't have the social power to pull the right strings to make it work. But I don't want to orchestrate this; I want to be the one to do the damage, to personally inflict all my pain on him. To kill him.

Anger blooms in my chest, a welcome release. My hands curl into fists, my nails digging in until bloody streams run down my palm and drip onto my desk, ruining the poem. I don't care. I belatedly laugh; I'm just like Micah, digging nails through flesh, drawing blood, losing control. My laugh grows; wild and insane. It scares me and I can't help but laugh at that too. Well, he's broken me. Ha, ha, hahahahahahahahahahahaha...

Crash

I look up, spying the chair I am sure I am meant to be sitting on. Assessing my room quickly, to my shock I realise that I've fallen on the floor. Well then. Pull your shit together girl! Fucking hell. I glance down at my copper red hands, a numb stinging sensation spreading through my palms. I need to clean this. Wash away the blood. Ha, ha, blood on my hands, ha ha. Wasn't I just discussing with myself how I was going to kill Peter? Literal and metaphorical blood on my hands. God help me, I've lost it completely.