a psychopathic girl recalls how she came to be where she is now
"If love should in any way be useful, it would serve the purpose of showing how it will only bite the hand that feeds it." This is what I say to my young friends so hopelessly enamored with a young gentleman. They flit about in their frilly, lacy dresses, strutting like peacocks, only to be forgotten like one would look at a beautiful painting then forget its intrigue five minutes later.
I, once, was like them. In love with mystery and danger. But I forgot the bleak cruelty and evil that lurks unseen in the general region of danger.
Nathaniel Hawthorne was gallant and brooding. His inky hair was groomed to perfection, his clothes tailored by masters of the trade. He immediately made it known he was going to pursue me, and only me. Like a fool, I played along, but became the unwilling loser of the game.
I was thrilled that he wanted me, but I continued to flirt, to play hard to get. Like a fool. But he was forceful. He came on to me stronger and stronger, until he threatened my life if I ever was with another man again. I then became afraid for my life.
Nathaniel was a newcomer of sorts. No one knew anything about him, but I suspected he belonged in an asylum.
One dreary night, I was walking home from a party. I was somewhat drunk, but still retained a degree of clear thinking. I could still make logical descisions.
It was pouring. Lightning flashed hungrily, longing to strike something with a devouring fire. There followed exuberant sounds of thunder. I was walking the path through the thick woods of my father's estate. A flash of branched lightning illuminated the man in front of me. Nathaniel stood straight and tall with lomething long in his grasp. A thrill of fear and shock coursed through my veins, accelerating my heart beat considerably.
"You were at a party tonight, weren't you?" He asked calmly.
I wasn't expecting to make it home that night. "Yes." I answered weakly.
"I told you not to."
He raised his arm, but something feral and dark controlled me as I lurched forward and twisted the knife in his grasp so it sank into his heart. His eyes held that white-ringed look of fear and confusion. Then I buried him under a rose bush after his last breath, nicking my hands well on the thorns.
By him, I had been provoked to violence. But I had been thinking calmly the whole time. It had been the only logical solution.
Then I continued on my way home. Maybe my parents knew what had happened, maybe not. They lookied horrified and scared, but I wasn't ashamed.
"Rose... Rosie, what have you done?" My mother spoke in a strangled-sounding voice.
"It was the only logical thing to do. He just wouldn't leave me alone."
"Rose you put that knife down right now!" My father's deep, rich voice rang out, filled with notes of false authority.
"Why?" I asked. "You wouldn't tell on me now, would you? You love me. I'm your child." I knew very well my exceedingly calm voice was scaring them out of their meager wits. And for some strange reason I was enjoying it. Immensely.
"You wouldn't send me to some scary place, would you Daddy?" I tilted my head to the side, my pretty, wet blonde hair sticking to my neck.
"N-no dear, dear, it's fine! We will help you! We'll get this fixed!" My mother cried desperately, voice verging on a wild shriek.
"Fixed? What needs to be fixed?I don't want to be fixed!" I screamed and lunged.
My parents lay peacefully in the attic in an old wardrobe my mother cherished. I sat on the sofa, waiting for my twin sister to come home. There would no doubt be inquiry as to why my parents were dead and one of the daughters was gone. So I would have to make it to look as if my sister had killed our parents, then me.
Finally, she came home, laughing and drunk. I don't how much of the situation dawned on her before she departed from life. she laughed at me sitting so seriously, then saw the knife in my hand and screamed. I held it to her throat and pinned her arms to her sides as I ordered her to switch dresses with me.
Once we were done with the exchange, I made it to look like she had been killed in the same fashion as Mother and Father. She was dressed in my clothes, so I would put her in my bedroom, to make sure she looked like me.
After that I packed my bags and went very far away, where no one would ever find me.
I finally recovered from my lapse of insanity, during which I had killed my family and Nathaniel. But of course I wondered mildly if I ever was sane at all, and if I even recovered. That doesn't matter, though. What matters is that it was all quite logical, and it fixed all my problems. Well, almost. If others knew of it and disagree, that is their dilemma, not mine.
I have never been provoked to conscious violence since. Though I do not know what occurs once I am asleep. Anyway, instead, I changed to an emotionally detached person to whom everyone comes to for advice.
Now I lounge here in this quiet, dark room with a single candle and my journal, as I am thinking of burning it. But then again, someone, someday, will discover it and learn the truth once I am long gone. That would be fitting. I think I shall not destroy it.
These days, I am older, but many nights I have strange dreams of people dying by my hand, and in the morning, they are found dead. And then some are never found at all. But I'm sure it's nothing.
Ironically, people compare me to a rose, my namesake which I have never told to a soul. I laugh when people call me a rose, but never tell them why.
I will remind you of one last thing, though. When someone spies a rose, he or she only sees the beauty, the facade. But when I spot a rose, all I see are the thorns. People always forget the thorns that are masked so cleverly by beauty.