a short story i wrote at the peak of my mental breakdown

two months after i spit on your lawn when you weren’t around to see it, i got in my car—‘fig’, we all call it—and drove the thirty-five minutes. i parked on eighth street. i pulled my hood over my head. i walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk, revealing a slender piece of metal that’d carve the perfect hole for my revenge. revenge is the wrong word. justice. for my justice. i grabbed it, and walked to your window, and took a deep breath. i contemplated. i swung. i swung and swung until every single window on the front side of the house was completely shattered and you were grabbing your gun. “shoot me! shoot me for all i care!” i ran away. i put duct tape over my license plate. you aimed, and you fired, and you hit my shoulder. i didn’t notice. i got in and i drove until i hit the gas station fifteen minutes north. i pulled the duct tape off, and changed my hoodie, and went in for a drink. i relaxed. i sipped my dr pepper and waited for the consequences to come in like the tide. they didn’t. sure, my arm was bleeding, but i didn’t care. i only felt good. i felt right. i felt strong, and just, and correct, and tough, and all the things you never made me feel. you’re lucky i only got your windows. two years later, i came back. i waited until you weren’t home. i’d gotten a copy of your house key, and trust me, i used it. i stole what i wanted of your stuff—my stuff, really—and smashed what i could with the crowbar that still held the same memories. i wrecked your table. i shattered your windows (again), and it felt even better than last time. no real drug could ever get me so high. my spirit had wings, and it flew faster than your hand to the side of my face. i took my time with it. after all, i’d been waiting over half my life. i took back my books. i took back my drawings. i took back my toys. i took back control of my life. i went next door and explained the noise to the neighbors. they didn’t seem to mind. nobody seemed to mind. when you murder a whole town, it stays quiet. word doesn’t spread. it’s better this way. i walked out with my crowbar over my shoulder, my legs borderline shaking as i got into my car. i didn’t care about anything. i never had—at least not since you took that away. this time, the justice felt better than good. it made me ache. i shoved my hand down my pants, and moved it as frantically as possible until i’d made an even bigger mess than the one i’d left in your house. i leaned back in the seat and caught my breath. i stepped back out of the car and admired the house i’d never lived in. i ran my eyes along the banisters that’d never held up my roof. i smiled. i smiled and i licked the blood off my teeth. i brought my unimportant hand (the one i didn’t get myself off with) up to my nose to wipe away the blood only to leave it with more than i started with. i guess i’d smashed my hand somewhere along the way. sure, my fingers were broken and my bones were exposed to the summer air, but i didn’t care. i only felt good. i felt sore, and redeemed, and floaty, and high, and all the things i’d never had in my youth. i felt all the things one should feel. i felt high on my own blood. two minutes later, you came home. you saw me, and you saw the blood masking my face, and you got scared. i saw it. i felt it. you got scared, and for just a moment, i understood. my motives brushed yours. the fear dissipated like it’d never been in the air, and i saw the breath you huffed out before you spoke to me. before you almost spoke to me. in that liminal, empty moment, i brought the crowbar up. i brought the crowbar down. i brought the crowbar up. i brought the crowbar down. an aching pleasure filled my head. my thighs twitched. i felt high on my own death. my last words were a scream. my last sentence was a bloody, bruised, and broken scream that rang through the empty town. my final word spoken was a feeling. it was an emotion. it was the way you hurt me. i saw it hurt you back. two seconds later, i collapsed.