Unfinished Business

CHAPTER 4: AN ABSOLUTE CESSPOOL OF SELF-LOATHING

Just like that-- in a snap of Belladonna's fingers, in a burst of flame and terror-- I was back at Punkin's. It was more abandoned than before; the hay bales were sectioned off with bright-yellow caution tape. For a second, I was afraid that, if I looked up, I would see my own corpse up there. 

That was stupid and I knew it. My body wasn't going to be up there. It was probably in a morgue somewhere, on a cold silver table, getting sliced open and defiled. 

This was stupid. I wasn't going to find anything here if I was afraid to look. It made sense to go elsewhere. 

I flipped through the files while standing there, practically glued to the spot. I knew that the air was cold. Vapor was spilling from the mouth of every person who passed me by or walked right through me. That didn't happen often, since Punkin's was closed during the day, so it took me off-guard every time. 

From what I could tell, I was killed by something called the Eye For An Eye. It was real. It wasn't just some stupid urban legend that tween girls were obsessed with. It was a real person, a teenage girl, who died and became something monstrous. 

Among the papers I was given was a set of instructions that were supposed to lead me to what I instinctively knew was the haunted house at the end of my street. There was also the contract I had signed. There was also a letter for whoever Catharine Lamartine was. For her sake, I hoped this got to her. I wasn't sure what was in it and I wasn't about to commit a federal crime over the limpest red envelope I had ever held. I was sure it was important, though. 

I didn't have anywhere to put this massive manila filing folder. God, could life get any greater? 

It took me a while to figure out where I wanted to go. I didn't want to stay at Punkin's (and I was no longer there, thank God) and I definitely didn't want to go home. I could see it now, all the theatrics that were probably going on there. It was easy to imagine. My mother sobbing at the kitchen table, my father trying to maintain a stiff chin, and both of them acting as if either of them actually knew anything about me or cared about me in the slightest. If I had told them I was going to leave the church they raised me in or that I wouldn't have been giving them grandbabies, they wouldn't have cared if I lived or died. As it was, I could exist perfectly in their memories for the rest of the time they were on Earth. As it was, I would never rebel. I would never pull a Lucifer and drag myself out of Heaven. 

Of course, that was all speculation. One can never truly know what lies in the heart of another. That is, unless you cut them open. Am I right, ladies?

The problem is, I couldn't stand when my mother cried. Most of the time, it felt empty and fake. She was a crocodile crying on the banks of a river. I know it sounds harsh, considering that she's my mother, but there were times when I had no compassion for her. Like, we get it, Cher, you thought you knew your kid and it turns out you didn't. You thought you could control your kid and you were proven wrong. Can we move on, please? 

The only place I could think of to go (other than the haunted house, because I didn't want to go there) was the high school. 

I checked the file again. There was a line in one of the reports that talked about how the Eye For An Eye fed off of self-loathing because of its origins as a girl that was driven to suicide. That made sense to me, considering when I died. I was at a (brief) low point and I got murdered, but I was also hating myself, so it was kind of my fault, wasn't it? Yeah, that tracked. That's what I get for having a moment of weakness. She went to the same high school I did, though, back in the 1980s. 

It was settled, then. I was going to the high school. It was probably a hot spot for self-loathing, anyway. You stick a bunch of naturally-insecure teenagers in a box and shake them around, and you're bound to get some nasty emotional fumes.