Violent Haunt

  Objects had been strewn across the room by the cold hands of my fury. Cold, yet fiery. I could feel it, my eyes illuminated so bright and powerful- but powerless. How could someone feel so powerfully enraged, yet so helpless and alone? Hated? Repulsive? If I go on to list more of my many names, you may begin to believe I really am this person. But do you want to know a secret? Oh, I’ll tell you one.
  I’m not really like this. I swear, I can be so nice it shocks me. I wonder how the Hyde to Jekyll transformation occurred. How was this held back? Why? This is the sort of thing that makes you want to throw an ugly book off the table. It confuses you. How could you be a disgusting machine of hate one moment, then find total sweetness inside of you? Feel the urge to show extreme kindness and empathy?. Empathy. That’s it.
  Some people say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I will take this moment to tell you to shut up. It does NOT make you stronger. It breaks you down. You have too much on your plate, you eventually drop it. It breaks. It all spills out. I would know. Not only did I drop a glass bowl of ice cream when I was three, but I’ve kept all my emotions inside until they all burst out of me like fireworks gone awry. THAT’S what makes me this way. I’m reticent. I hate the people at my school, I don’t want to talk to them, and I don’t want to listen to them. I am soft-spoken, so they never hear me anyway. You think I can confide in them? Tell them my deepest hurt? No. I keep it all inside, and it makes a meal out of me. It eats me alive.
  Anyways, what compels me to be so nice sometimes? Empathy. I see some idiot picking on someone online. Everybody hates her. They say things, and I don’t like it. I comfort the girl, tell her she’s perfect. I tell her I’ve been through it all. She’s amazed at how nice I’m being. Why don’t I hate her? Why am I the only one who’s not mad? It’s because of empathy. I know what it’s like, and I build people up when they go through it. What doesn’t kill me doesn’t make me emotionally stronger. It enables me to comfort and understand when no one else will, and it gives me stronger opinions on the treatment of people.
  As I drag my feet to pick up ugly books and scattered pages, I think of these opinions, my reasoning. I wonder how people justify cussing someone out when they do wrong. Sorry to butt in, but being rude and nasty to someone who did something rude and nasty is hypocritical.  Let’s say someone cusses out your friend. You cuss them out. Great, now you’re both in wrong. You inflicted pain on another person. You have now done wrong, too. Your tongue is slippery as soap, which is what your mouth is going to get pretty soon.

Good. I think. She won’t be coming for me today. All I had to do was think positive thoughts. Review my opinions on human treatment in my head, getting into something without digging at myself. But it was then that I realized that I had just thrown a storm of books across the room. Rats. Maybe she was coming for me.

  I heard it. The unmistakable sound of a heartbeat. It was loud and artificial. Loud enough to bounce around the stone walls. Every time I heard it, she came. She was coming. My face scrunched as if I were about to cry, but I released it. Tears were in my eyes. I was scared.
  I saw her. First I saw her silhouette walking angrily down the hallway, but then she broke out into a run. I let out a little squeal. With my back against the wall, I shrank down, crying as I went.   
  
  She came. It was worse than any storm you may have ever cowered from. This was a whole new storm. Tears formed the rain, which was harder than any rain you would know. She came, yelling, her echoing voice more thunderous than anything you’ve ever experienced. She threw herself against me, her fists acting as two big hailstones. She shoved me against the wall harder than any stormy wind could have, and yanked me around. She pulled me up into a lopsided standing position and threw me to my left.

I collapsed onto the floor not out of weakness, but in order to crawl away from her grasp. As she had just revealed, I was an easier target if I was standing up. It’s a bit of a pain to lean down and beat on someone. I crawled frantically, but not fast enough. My heart skipped and I let out a short scream as she quickly bounded toward me. She dove onto the ground- onto me- and pinned me down. Her breathing was rough, her eyes fierce. The darkness of the room made their usual shade of dark blue turn even darker. Her hair was blonde, but a different sort of blond from mine. Her face was not mine either. Nevertheless, this violent fear of mine was me.