charisma

I listen to her microphone closely as she calculates her next move, my phone in hand with the finger on the button to act first. I will beat her, I will sabotage her, after all I've been through, after all she's put me through, with her unwillingness to acknowledge my dominance as a socialite, my spectacular-ism, what I've overcome to get here. Her and her non-relatable perky psychology. I know the real stuff, I know real pain and I know how to solve it. I will show her, with every move she makes, that she will embrace my pain, my torture, my diligence and there is nothing, NOTHING, she can do about it.

That mute coloured butterfly, that air-headed fluff-faced butterfly, with the bull that piles out of her mouth. Looking like the nice one, looking like the casual, carefree hippy garbage she is. She believes in flow and fate, that pressure is passive-aggressive. The truth is, miss airhead butterfly, that pressure makes diamonds, and you are soon to be my diamond. I will tie you by your wings and pin you to my board, making you my next angel, sitting in the collection of all the pretty, boring pink butterflies that have come before you. After six other egotistical, pretty miss perfects, I have perfected the game. You will be shown off as a 'dime a dozen' brick, the wood panel more valuable than you. And your only beauty will be that I-OWN-YOU.

You think someone's gonna swoop in and save you? You think your bow smile and banter are gonna get you places? Do you really think there is a place for you? Because people like you do not know pain and people like me will wise you to it. I'm an animal and you are a dingus butterfly. There's no human here. There's nothing unique about you, except that you haven't been haunted by my demons yet. You run, you hide, you beg, you say annoying crap but you cannot escape me. No, you're not of value to me, but I am immensely purposeful to you. I can catch you and I can free you, but I won't. Can't have you running away with your warnings and “a better world” ideology. Your “call the friggin cops” crap. Hazardous -ass butterfly.

Did anyone save me from him, his horrid, scraped up face, his sand paper touch? When I was locked in my bedroom, listening to the floor creaks to see how close he was, what his mood was. Looking for somewhere to hide, but knowing I would get 'it' worse if I got caught. Shudder, I shake my head to remove the thought.

Good-bye butterfly. Let the games begin. I already got into your cell phone, so despite your happy little friendship group, I have the data, the edge, the sword. You will not get far, tethered, tarnished butterfly.

I nailed it. She called Daniel, her temporary flirt, to see if he wanted to go with her to the upcoming show. I can see in her head, her thoughts, her preliminary patterns. I forward the call to my basic 000-000-000 number voicemail (thanks to an app called hawk-dial). “605-722-xxx isn't available to take your call. Please leave your message after the beep.” She hangs up, prepared to shoot him a text instead. Perfect. I forward it to myself, and think of what to write back. Wait for it, Wait for it. An hour and a half delay should add authenticity. “Hey, what's up?” poses fake Daniel (me). “There's a show on Friday, Slaying ducks and a couple other bands. Want to come?”, “Yeah, where's it at?”, “Basic Income on Water St., do you want to grab a drink beforehand?”. Now's my chance, how do I want to play this? So many options. I could send her to a bar uptown and leave her waiting there, lonely, texting and deserted. I could come in there myself, knowing she will cherish some company in the moments of the dumps. Either throw a few caps in her drink, or throw some lines of mistaken-for-coke GHB in her face. Or I could pull her closer into my grips, hear about her exciting new job, tell her about an opportunity to fly to Panama, a round trip $350. But I already have a plan, a plan hatched from the day I knew I had to teach her a lesson. A plan so perfect and opportunistic, there was no way to escape. If you put in enough time and effort, you can make anything you want to happen, happen. That's the philosophy of smart, successful people who have to actually work for it. I don't mean 9-5, poppin' with beneficial ideas 'work''. I mean work, elements of control, personal perseverance and discipline. You call 9-5 a job? I call my whole life work. Even fun can be work, if you put the effort into it. See how much harder I work than everyone else? See how much more I deserve it? And do you know what will prove it to you? When I get what I want and you're sitting in a cot of piss.

The time I borrowed $60.00 from your bag and you yelled at me IN PUBLIC. I needed the money, I was only borrowing it, and I knew you wouldn't say yes, even though I would pay you back. I mean, you had money, you had cash all the time at your waitress job. You would never loan it to me, even though I would have given you some 'product' as well. And you had to make a scene, in front of everyone, over $60.00 gawd-damn bucks. It's not like I stole anything from you, I simply borrowed the money with a latent response.

The first step to a plan is a goal. What is the goal post, the ultimate measure of success, you might ask? I want that dainty butterfly tied to my cot, hidden in the abandoned church I found on one of my “treks”. I want to steal her life, her friends, her boyfriend, her job, her measures of success, her attention. I will be the focal point of her life as she pleads, reasons, and screams”you'll never get away with this”. Yes I will, I will, no problem at all. I will get away with it, I will be you, but better. Nobody will miss you, and at the end of the day, very few people will care. Nobody will look, and with me in your place, nobody will notice that your gone. You think you mean something but you haven't got what I have. Experience. Experience as a recipient of mental health services, of victim services. Experience in taking down your enemies. I'm close to having expertise, in the realm of revenge. I also have skills with drug-cocktails, gas-lighting, and eye for where I could be of service (and directive of the narrative), multiple means of control, including isolation, imitation, and my favourite, my ability to comfort those in distress. If there was a job-opening for keen manipulators, and there is, my resume would be lush with fortuity.

My last victim could help you understand. She could help you understand that I am not a person to mess with, I have dealt with enough problems to deal with them WELL. By incapacitating them and caging them, before they become a bigger problem and say bad things about me, ruining everything I have achieved. Stephanie questioned my intentions with the fundraising “for children with cancer” and didn't understand that I was putting the money towards a better use. She was going to report my requisitioning of the money as “mismanagement” and I couldn't have honest-princess- SSSStephanieee getting a moment alone with the director of the board. Then she became my butterfly, in a state of the art fortress, and understood I was better than her, more cunning, more clever, more observant and was going to put the money towards a more purposeful use. Stephanie is now a collar bone, sitting on my prize board in an artful fashion (fashioned with simple bows). She could explain to you how good I am at being 'the smart one'.

The second step is a plan. I must be brief, and the plan has to be loose enough to be alert when there is opportunity and close enough to grab it. Opportunistic-planning. Also, you can't swing in too close that you can't get yourself out. A normal appearance with a moment to pounce is an impeccable strategy, so that if you don't succeed, it's just an infraction on your record, nothing too seemingly criminal. Carry-on.

This is my plan. I'm proud of it. Only a few people to brag to, otherwise it's minced words jumbled into a cover-story. Tonight, I arrive at the bar and humble her as she complains about the ill-treatment of Daniel. She's always been a touch stand-off with me, weary or whatever. I know I'm not her first choice of company but she is too decent to say so. I will have to use coercion therapy, a concoction of 0.5 mg of Pentothal and 0.2 mg of MDMA, to facilitate a more long-term and trusting bond. The amounts are small, but I only need it to be effective for a short bit, and anything to effective will bring on suspicion. The information I need is on her new place of work (which, I hear, is bombin'), Her feelings on Daniel, a tattoo-ed hottie with connections, and how she feels about her friends, maybe a few memories or topics they are concerned about. I'm infiltrating, tonight is just about setting the platform.

Tomorrow morning I will enter her place, her sleeping and hungover from tonight's intoxication. I will apply three tiny cameras, kitchen, living space, and bathroom. These cameras were not cheap. They are Wifi-power sourced, so I can check on her as needed with my cellphone and they never run out of battery. They are the size of dime and have a microphone feature. Impressive eh? What they come out with nowadays? It's as if the whole world is on my side, making my job easier.

From there it's a game of head-havoc. I'll monitor her phone, monitor her apartment, drive by her house in different cars ( a car exchange site for the do-gooders, like me), follow her at just right distance for her to know I've been there for miles, but can't identify me. I will harass her at every turn I get, discreetly (that is the most important rule to gas-lighting, my young pupils). I'll get her amazon packages, her phone calls, her emails, share her information on a few websites I have in mind, occasionally break into her house and stir just a few things around. I may even get enough voice clips to put together an art piece and add to the chaos. Not a move she can make without me knowing. I know how she'll react. Just like Stephanie. Paranoid. She will feel my eyes on her and wonder about the strangeness of the events (her boss never gets her emails, her cousin never calls her back). No one will have any explanation, which will quickly develop into “maybe you should take some meds”. Her friends will be talking about her strange behaviour behind her back, and the best part is: I will be there, posing as if I'm on her side, saying things about the troubles of mental health and recommending sterile psychiatrists for her to try out. Telling her friends to mention that mindfulness really helped me relax. Then, fully knowing we've never hit it off, I'll be employed at her place of work, as receptionist or something dumb. It doesn't matter though, I'll be there. In her head, in her job, in her relationships, in her life. Just like she's in mine AND WON'T GET OUT.

Or that time she exposed me. For inviting her to a party to embarrass her, because I knew her ex and her ex-friend were there, together. Something she specifically asked her close friends to warn her about. She cried but then she yelled at me. It reminded me of HIM, yelling at me for getting the authorities involved. Right before he hurt me. IT'S NOT FAIR that they don't feel like this. That they'll never understand what it feels like to be me. So I just shake my head and the thought goes away.

She'll learn. Protest me a few times, a totally ridiculous effort (I seem very nice). She'll isolate herself, resentful of her “beloved” ones. I'll mention I had seen her walking the downtown core, looking as if she was using something, and appeared to be having some money problems. Painting the picture with the lightest stroke. If you claim too much or too hard, your story will lose appeal. But the set-up will be complete. Wait till she hasn't seen anyone a for a few days. Pose as the new HR to let her know the company is taking a few extra days off for holidays, and then text her, posing as Daniel, once again to meet her and rekindle. Instead, I will arrive and take her to her new manor, Brooke-Side Cottage, I call it. Pretty good though. There's more to it, but this is the general layout. The timing is a bit unpredictable, it's more of a window, and the imitation is important. I need more observational data for that. It's time for our first offence.

I am clairvoyant. She is sitting at the window facing table, all alone and scrolling through her phone. No one to text, no one has texted back (Haha). I bump my backpack into her table, “Hey girl, What's up, so glad your here. Are you going to the Slaying ducks show later?” I say. So, so many smiles. “Ya I am, I was supposed to meet someone and they never showed”(Haha). “Well, do you want to go with me? I'm just stopping by for a drink first, waiting for Allison (not really, but hey).” “Ya, that'd be great” “Great, I'll get us a round. On me. Just gotta go to the washroom first”. “Cool, thanks Teresa”. Hahahahahhhh, Oh god, success is so good. I'm brilliant and she is a dumb stool of a human. Hilarioussss. I walk to the washroom to mix my concoction ( my powdered social lubricant to put in a poison ring, stylish and resourceful). No one else is in here, I take a look in the mirror and smile at my clever, beautiful self. Holy. She's right behind me. The butterfly is right behind me. Grrrack, ckllerk, driiiibbbl. I can't make any noises. I can't make any sounds, I can't even breath. SHE SLIT MY THROAT. I feel the blood dripping, the world going dark. I hear her footsteps leave. THAT BI...

I see my body lying, seeping blood that is taking up more of the floor. Impressive, how much a body bleeds. I can't believe it. Un-friggin-believable. That little brute of a butterfly got me. Burned me once again, on my playing field. I will destroy her. Except I'm...I'm dead. I got lost in my head, missed my target by a minute. She got me. I float through the bathroom wall (definitely dead, jaysus-kriste), and she just there, laughing with the bartender, like nothing happened. Not a drop on her, except for her vans. I will get you, you villain. You mediocre excuse for a murderer. I will get you, I will get you in the next life, and you will pay again and again and again.