Confrontation

"It's just not the same anymore..."

Yeah well you could say that. You are planning on tearing my world up by the roots, and I'm not planning on stopping you.

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed it?"

Noticed what? You're an arsehole and a really bad liar? Because I had, actually.

"We've been growing apart for months now! Come on. Please say something, babe."

That got my attention. That last word. "Babe." He no longer had the right to call me that. My head snapped up with a quick
swish of brown hair and my brown eyes locked on his.

"I have nothing to say to you. Have a nice life... Babe. Goodbye," I purred, enjoying the way his eyes widened in hurt,
just a little bit too much.

It wasn't fair that he do all the hurting, it was my turn. And that single sentence wasn't nearly
enough. He frowned, confused. It was an adorable expression, Of course. All of his expressions were adorable because
HE was adorable. And gorgeous and romantic and athletic and intelligent and honest. Only... He wasn't. Not really.
Reality was that he was unobtainable. By some weird mental breakdown he had chosen me. At the time it had seemed miraculous.
Now, I wasn't quite sure I wanted to have obtained him and his compulsive lying and over active hormones in the first place.
For weeks I had heard the rumours, seen people look at him side ways with disapproval and sometimes even admiration.
But everyone always looked me dead in the eye with pity and sympathy stamped across their foreheads. Like they expected this
all along, the way I should have. Well no more. I had had enough, and it looked like he wanted to go public with Stacey or
Tiffany or HoeBag before Formal anyway. Another dance with me on his arm? Social suicide, much? As these thoughts ran through
my mind they must have shown in my eyes, because his were lightening with realisation. His jaw slackened and his shoulders
slumped.

"You... know?" He whispered.

I nearly laughed.

"That you're a cheating bastard? Yep, I recieved that memo." I retorted, scathingly. About a month ago, Jackass.

"Oh, God... I'm so sorry, babe, I didn't mean for it to happen," and there it was again, that forbidden name.

He started to ramble, stumbling over his apologies. I'd begun to wonder why he was pretending to be sorry.

"No, I'm pretty sure what you mean is "I didnt mean for you to find out"," My voice was quiet and clear, making his seem
all that much weaker and unsure of itself.

I had yet to end the staring competition I'd started and he was beginning to look uncomfortable. Intimidated even. But what
he didn't look was what mattered to me then. And he looked neither ashamed nor sorry for what he had done. But he would.
By the end of it, he would. After I decided on that cheerful New Years resolution I turned and walked away, not stopping
to look back even once. And he never called after me either.

Hours later when I bothered to check my phone, I had about a dozen missed calls with half a dozen voicemail messages. I rolled my eyes
and began the long process of deleting each one without bothering to listen to any. On top of that I had quite a few text messages, these
I read though. Basically the same thing over and over, with the words changed around as his desperation slowly increased. He still wasn't
sorry, not genuinely. Merely terrified. I couldn't think why. I'd never seen myself as overly scary, personally. Sure, I bit back like
your garden variety teenager sick of being underestimated. I was a bitch to those who thought my name was synonymous with "welcome
mat" and that they could walk all over me. Besides, he was so much bigger than me, thanks to free access to his father's gym. Taller and
stronger. So what did he have to worry about? How much damage could I possibly inflict?

As I lay in bed that night I thought about how my life had changed since this morning. After several moments of brooding I decided it
hadn't changed. I got up, got dressed, went to school, met up with my boyfriend, plastered a fake smile on my face, went to class, went
to the cafeteria at lunch, came home. In essence my day followed the same pattern as always. Except that just before the "coming home"
bit, I was dumped on the quadrangle outside my boyfriends socio-economics class. Tomorrow morning I would still get up, get dressed and go
to school. I would still go to the same lessons with the same people. I just wouldn't be meeting up with my boyfriend. I wouldn't be faking
an emotion that was slowly dying. Instead of the aching sadness I had been feeling for that lost love I felt hollow. Where the pain of his
 betrayal had been was now only empty space. I could look back on my life, at the good and bad times with a sense of indifference, a
sort of numbness. My life hadn't changed since this morning. I had.

When I woke up, I had a plan. To avenge myself. I threw back my quilt and moved to sit on the seat beneath my window. The floor was
freezing, but it didnt really bother me. I barely noticed. I looked down at the front yard from my second storey view to see my mothers
car missing from the drive way. It was only seven am but mum probably left hours ago. I rarely saw her because she only came to shower,
sleep for a couple hours, check the mail and the answering machine and then leave again. Very talented woman, my mother. I could trash
the house, go to sleep and when I woke up it would be pefectly restored. The only trace of her presence would be a sticky note on the
fridge saying "have fun last night darling? Money for milk's in the jar on the shelf to the right. Love, Mum." or something similar. We
communicated with sticky notes. When I needed new shoes I put it on the fridge. When I woke up a pair would be on the floor by my bed
with a fluro Post It stuck to them. This way, I didnt go without and she got to go without seeing me. Kind of like dad, but when he walked
out six years ago, I think he got the sweeter deal. As the rain began to pick up to the point I could no longer see the faded paint of our
white picket fence, I thought about my plan and an eerie calm settled over me. It never ocurred to me that there is something profoundly
wrong about indifferently hammering out the details of a plan to murder.

The plan itself was pretty basic. My father had left when I was quite small, and my mother had always been a co-dependent person.
So a few months of sleepless nights drove her into a self protection mode. Not only did we get a whizz bang home security system, my
mothers underwear draw housed a shiny new shotgun, perfect for shooting her own foot with should we get robbed. My barbie doll of
a mother wouldnt know where the trigger was, let alone how to shoot the damn thing. But when your parents are hardly ever home, children
have to entertain themselves. So naturally, I'd learnt the basics, somehow managing to not injure myself to the point of hospitilisation.
My plan was, grab the gun, stash it on me somewhere, go to school, meet up with my now ex-boyfriend for the last time... And then wing it,
 I suppose. I never said it was a great plan.

Half an hour later I was walking through the front gates of my school. It was still early, so not many students were here yet. You could
see teachers rushing from building to building, sleep still in their eyes with their steaming cups of coffee in their hands and folders
tucked under their arms. Far too distracted to notice anything was amiss till it was too late. Before I'd left this morning I finally
got around to contacting my ex. I made sure I rang just before his alarm would go off, so he wouldn't answer, but would still get
my message soon enough. As I tucked my mothers gun into the back of my jeans I left a nonchalant voicemail message. My voice was
carefully emotionless as I asked to meet him where we usually did, at the same time we usually did. This was normally our arrangement
so we could make out for a decent amount of time before our educating officially began. This time I claimed to want to talk to him.
Apologise for my rude behaviour yesterday. He knew my manners were incredibly important to me, given that my parents have none, so
this excuse seemed believable. Of course, he could still chicken out, given his recent cowardice, but he had his pride. And he knew I
would have no qualms about spreading his weakness around the school. So I was pretty confident he would be there. As I walked further
into the school I saw that my assumptions had indeed been correct and he stood beneath our schools largest and oldest tree, pacing the
same three metres back and forth. He looked up when he caught sight of me, freezing. As I got closer I saw the look of apprehension on
his face and smiled a smile I doubt was very welcoming.

"You seem a little tense," I said, my voice touched with false concern.

It sounded strange, even to my ears. Devoid of any real emotion. His shoulders tightened when I spoke and I could see the sweat forming
on his forehead, despite the chill in the air. He tried at a sheepish smile, but it morphed into a grimace when my face betrayed no edge
of kindness.

"So. Wha- What did you want to talk about?" He said, stuttering over "what" and trying to cover it by clearing his throat.

I pondered his question, as I walked to sit on the bench we normally made out on. There were other benches (as I said, it's a big tree)
but this wasn't about avoiding things that could hurt. And I wanted him to feel the sting of the irony. That's why I had chosen this
particular place. He made no move to follow me, instead turning on the spot to keep his eyes on me. I crossed my legs, leaning back to
emphasise my comfort, which no doubt made him edgier. I was enjoying watching him squirm. We had gone out for two years. He knew
something was up, that something big was going down, simply because he knew me. Well, some of me. I remembered his question.

"I just wanted to know somethings," I said, and smiled when I watched his face drop.

"Like..?" He answered, already knowing the answer.

"Whats her name? The girl who taught you how to kiss? Don't think I didn't notice," My voice was smooth but I knew my words were
sharp enough to cut steel. He was surprisingly self concious about his... Physical Expertise... In our relationship. I'd heard rumours about
him and Lucy Carmichael in his best friend Tommy's pool shed New Years Eve. How awfully cheap of them. I wanted to hear the truth
from him though.

"No one you know," he said, sharply and just a bit too quickly.

I raised an eyebrow. Well then. Dig the protective vibe.

"Oh really? We're seniors, I'm on the Student Council and I've lived here all my life. I doubt theres anyone in this town I dont know,
let alone the school," I challenged, but his expression never changed.

I longed to slap the stubborness from his features. And then thought, What the heck? Might aswell! So I did just that. It one smooth
motion I got up and did the one thing he never expected from me. I slapped him so hard his head snapped to the side and he rocked back
on his heels. He never made a sound, but I knew it had to have hurt. He spat blood onto the pavement beside me, before looking back at
me. He made no move to touch his cheek, though I'm sure he had to fight the reflex. Instead he let me see the blood rising in his cheek
to form the shape of my handprint. For a moment, hurt flashed across his face and tears welled in his eyes, but when I blinked it was
gone. I was fighting to keep my numbness now. The metal of the gun seemed to be heating up against my back. Reminding me of the plan.

"Are you ok?" He whispered, as my eyes darted away from him, looking at anything but that red mark.

My blood heated when he said that, and a thousand memories flooded my mind. That time I broke my wrist falling down the stairs at home.
He drove all the way from the neighbouring town (thats two hours!) because I was passed out on the floor and not answering his calls.
He'd held me all night in my hospital bed, a box of Kleenex on his lap, trying to convince me to sleep. That day when I woke up for the
third time in a row to see that no Post Its had been left on the fridge. He'd spent hours reassuring me while I remained certain Mum
had died of alcohol poisoning in a gutter. I felt tears burning up my throat as two years worth of memories attacked me. No, I was not
okay, thank you very much. I didn't think I ever would be again. I fell to my knees as the tears began to fall from my eyes. I'd lost more
than my numbness by now. Had I really thought I could do it? Kill a boy I had loved for so long? No matter how badly he had hurt me?

"Babe?" His voice wasn't scared anymore.

I looked up, reflexively. His voice pulled at my heartstrings. It was the calm "I'll Take Care Of It" voice from my memories, from
every time I'd ever gotten upset. Who was I kidding? My love for him wasn't dying. My trust in him was. He was kneeling in front of me
looking at me with concern in those soulful eyes. What had I lost? My plan changed lightning quick. I leapt to my feet, darting away
from him and pulling the gun from my waistband at the same time. He started to rise, when the light caught on the metal of the gun,
freezing him in place. He had just a second to register what the flash was before it was pressed to my temple. I saw him move toward me
but he wasn't going to be quick enough. I closed my eyes against the yell of his protest and squeezes the trigger.

My hands cramping up now, so I think that's all I'm going to write today. It's part of my "recovery." A condition of my release, is
to seek psychiatric help. Dr Keezt believes that if I face my past head on, I can start the process of recovery, and most importantly
forgiving myself. Everyday for the past year they've been trying to get me to remember what happened just before I blacked out.
They could have just asked Scott, in my opinion, but that apparently wouldn't have helped my recovery. I had to be the one to tell the
story. So here it is. My story of how I tried to murder the boy who broke my heart. And I don't blame myself for trying to off myself
when I realised how ridiculous I was being. If I wasn't in a psych ward with not so much as a butter knife Id probably try it again,
now that I remember it all. It turns out Scott had been fast enough. He knocked me over a second before the trigger gave under my
 finger. My mother, barbie doll that she is, didn't know the correct maintenance of a gun, so it had been just a tad stiff. This heroic move
had cost Scott a bullet to the shoulder, but no permenant damage had been done. He comes to see me every day. Without fail. We're not
 back together, I don't know if we ever will be, but we both know it will be years before either of us fully trusts the other again.
He understands I wasn't well at that time, and I understand he was drunk in the pool house. Acceptance is different from forgiveness.
But we're making progress. We've had long, deep conversations about our feelings and my temporary insanity and hes told me Lucy
is long gone, and Ive told him that part of me is long gone. He sits beside me on my bed with a box of Kleenex between us.
 I'm being released sometime this week. Once I get over the shock of remembering what I'm almost capable of. Until then, no knives,
forks or even shoe laces are being allowed near me. My mother is now acting like a semi-normal mother. She comes into see me nearly as
much as Scott. He teases me that Ill go into Post It withdrawals or die of shock from actually having to converse with my birth mother.
Dr Keezt is taking my pen away now, he says Scotts here again. With a smile that suggests it knows something I don't. And with my
memory? Odds are it does.

THE END.