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Revenge

Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

A monologue.

_ _

The cogs started turning with the bloody apple. No, no - the apple wasn't bloody, but the blinds, the blue blinds, were splattered with the stuff. Those painted bricks, the ones kids use, they were bloody too. Poor buggers couldn't use them again after that scene.

I'd found him there, you see, Mr Evans, he was a new teacher, slumped forward in his chair like a kiddie's doll. Wouldn't've called him 'Jackie' if I'd known - he was a Jack Russell fur, too much energy for a wolf's like, my like. I would've thought he was having a bad day, if not for the spilled coffee staining his desk, that cup on its side and all that red. It was fucking everywhere. Thought it was paint at first, you see, kids with red paint and he had to clean it up.

Thought that was why he was so goddamn gloomy and didn't say hello or nothing like that. Then there was this dog just yapping away outside and I made a joke, like, to Mr Evans about how some blighter or another was a fucking failure, couldn't even keep his mutt under control. I figured it would, y'know, make him lighten up a bit.

Now, come on, mate, I said when he had no comeback for me. I know your love life ain't going so well right now, but you can't be like this where the kids can see you, it's just not professional like. She's all lust and legs anyway, that cat, no fucking brains. That was when I saw the tear in that vile, mauve shirt of his. He liked to be presentable, that terrier, and a tear even in that paper-thin material just would not be tolerated, oh no. So I stood there, paralyzed like, realising what that red paint was. Working it out nearly knocked me off my damn feet like that time the river flooded. It was like I was being flooded.

There was a picture up on his shelf of him and his lady, but I'd had no idea that he was in such shit, y'know? Things that bad? Nah, wouldn't've known. He never let on a thing to me, what could I have done? I still kinda hoped he was playing a sick joke on me, though he was never the type, and I gave him a little push on the shoulder so that he fell to one side, his bright, teal tie showing, though the rips and stains in his shirt were terrible, like he at been clawed at by some real wildcat, that bitch. He didn't look at me - his eyes were closed - and I knew, I just knew, that he was gone, my mate was gone, aye.

I thought, now what would someone think if they caught me there - they'd think I'd've done it, wouldn't they? So what could I do, I bloody ran out of there like a fox from the hounds, I did, so no one would know I'd been. But not before I saw the workbook on his desk and that one word slashed in dirty, yellow paint on the cover: revenge.