Liars Into Lessons

It begins with an itch under my skin; an insistent need to destroy something, to rip into someone and hear them scream. And it always starts when someone lies to me. When that lie turns into something bigger and I end up being used, end up being made out to be a monster? That itch becomes a rash that spreads and spreads until I can no longer tell if I ever had clear skin.

Now don't mistake me, I am a monster. I happily own up to that. But I refuse to have things I haven't done laid at my feet. Transgressions that I've never perpetrated against anyone stamped with my name and my signature. I am a monster, one that's done many horrific things, but even monsters have lines they will not cross. And to have someone say I've crossed even one of those lines? It enflames that body-wide rash into full blown sepsis and the only way to save myself is to teach a lesson the liar will never forget.

Which leads me to where I am now, standing in the middle of a street surrounded by a sprawling apartment complex that looks rather presentable on the outside but I know better. One trip inside just one apartment was enough to shatter that "presentable" façade. I've been here for several hours, unnoticed, unseen. The last car to drive through was when I arrived just after twilight began to tip into full night, shuffling along like someone out for a midnight walk, chattering away to themselves. I wasn't worried about being spotted then or now. I may not be easily forgotten with my tattoos and my piercings and my oddly colored hair, but I know how to make people's attention land and slip away like a fly on garbage. It was a trick I learned as a young child: the demon pretending to be your father won't touch you in the bad spot again if you don't give him a reason to notice you.

And when I arrived here, to this borderline desolate apartment complex with its crumbling buildings and seal-broken foggy windows and eye-sore paint job, I had employed that skill to the max. Used it as I stood at the edge of the street just before it sloped up into the driveway, watching and waiting. The occupants of the apartment that had my undivided attention were none the wiser to the danger that stood just outside watching them through the picture window. That listened to their laughter ring out from behind thin walls. That listened to the pleasure-born screams of someone in the throes of orgasm and the rumbling groans of their partner. A monster patiently waiting for the right moment to strike and take down its prey.

My fingers twitch around the pint glass in my grip, shifting ever-so-slightly until I can get a better hold, thumb brushing over the embossed picture of Bone Daddy. I brought it to be ironic, to be a smartass, though by the time I leave to return home, no one but me and those I left behind would know of that smartass born irony. It's fitting that I use something multipurpose like a glass for this endeavor. Especially one emblazoned with a character most think at first is the bad guy, is a monster, who never was but has the capacity to become one in the right situations. I'm not worried about fingerprints, I'm not going to leave any pieces behind. And if I do? It'll be dust so fine there's no possible way the authorities could extract shit from it to lead back to me. And even if they did? Oh well. I'd happily own up to this because maybe, finally, it would ensure that people stopped fucking with me.

Though I doubt that highly. I have learned the hard way not to put too much faith in people, despite how I sometimes forget that and end up doing so regardless.

I lean forward, knees bending slightly as I roll onto the soles of my feet before planting my ankles back down again. I'm not supposed to be standing for this long in a single position. I'll definitely pay for it later, but given what I have planned? It's worth it. Given that in less than an hour, if I'm judging correctly, I'll be too busy enjoying myself as I marvel in just how much damage I can do with a single pint glass to care about my mutinous muscles tomorrow.

I watch as in one of the second-floor windows a silhouette walks in, closes the door, and moves around. Watch as the light clicks off, as the darker shadow of the person moves back across the room to where I assume the bed is and disappears from sight.

It's about fucking time they all went to sleep.

I wait at least another twenty minutes before I allow a small, vicious smile to twist my lips. After another ten minutes, I slowly make my way up the driveway. That septic rash under my skin begins to scream, my blood running hot as my heartbeat skip-starts into a rapid drumbeat. But I calm my natural response with a single deep breath. My excitement, my pleasure, can wait.

Because right now? I need to make some liars into a distinct, and messy, lesson.