it’s always the freak who tries the hardest. 

tries the hardest to stay invisible. undauntable. untouchable.

tries the hardest to survive in a world of cliques and gossip.

tries the hardest to suppress the darkness building silently, obscured; to suppress the fathomless unfairness of it all rushing through their lungs, still blessed with the naive, innocent fountain of youth– at least until the point of no return.

i don’t know exactly when i began fantasizing about their deaths.

all i know is that once it started, i couldn’t make myself stop. 

everything was consumed by that insatiable thirst for justice, contaminating everything– my every thought, my every desire, my every breath– like a plague. 

whenever i imagine it, it’s like the knot in my stomach– a buildup of years of resentment– finally loosens, if only for a moment.

it’s like i could finally breathe.

i just couldn’t stop imagining their haunted eyes, gaping as it finally registered that after all these years, their perfect, fabricated, happily-ever-after was all going up in roaring flames, being stripped of their lies one by one as everything finally comes crashing down.

before i fall asleep, i still hear their whispers in my head, their laughter piercing against my skull like that song on the radio that just won’t shut up.

“oh my gosh, guys. it’s her.”

“oh, you don’t know? she’s the freak that spends all day writing cheesy songs in that stupid journal of hers.”

“i heard that she used to hide in bathrooms to ditch class.”

“who does she think she is? ariana grande? she's never even spoken a word in class.”

and then there were the jokes.

the funny . . . pranks. that’s what they called it.

pranks.

as in how everyone thought it was oh, so hilarious for me to be humiliated. 

but of course it wouldn’t be nearly as great if it hadn’t been in front of the entire faculty, my reputation crushed and marking me down on every black list there was, shaming me in front of the very community i grew up in. the only community i truly knew. the rumors that had spread like ripples on water: unstoppable, uncontrollable, each giggle splintering something deep and raw within my core.

and pranks.

as in how beyond amusing everyone thought it would be to demolish my life’s work– all my dreams and aspirations and things that truly make me alive– reducing them to drifting shreds of paper and splotches of ink, a shadow of what could’ve been. because writing sad songs to pass the time is something only freaks do . . . amirite?

and, of course, the ultimate tease of a prank.

shattering my everything– my voice, my passion, my soul, my purpose– under a torrent of their lies, rumors spreading beneath a tapestry of falsities spun with disdain.

everybody laughed. 

why wouldn’t they?

they were just pranks, after all. meant to lighten the mood and brighten a few faces.

at least, for them. 

not before long, i felt like i was suffocating in the rushing barrage of their lies, their whispered rumors and jokes and pranks shackling my hands, my legs, my heart, my pride, tethered like a noose around my neck as i sank and fell and stumbled, watching my world crumble to ashes.

they laughed at every blunder.

all i thought then was: so this is what it feels like to drown.

it’s funny, isn’t it? how cruel kids can be.

but eventually, i let myself sink in their cruelty. i let their words twist me inside, changing me. numbing me. preparing me. i did what they had wanted all along. i didn’t fight my role as the freak– i embraced it.

i let my innocence drown. 

the rest of me– the part that was left– swore to fight back.

and with every spiteful thought, it became clear that i was becoming crueler than the very people i swore to loathe. it was like with every funny prank, the burning impulse to prove myself started devouring all reason. all logic. all the shreds of sympathy i had left in my freak veins. my freak head. my freak heart.

i swore that with all their wicked jokes, i would have the last laugh.

some called it revenge. “the depression drove her to madness,” they said. “she wasn’t in her right mind.”

i called it returning the favor.

the irony was a beauty in itself.

even so, it shouldn’t have felt so good to hear their screams as they begged for an escape. for forgiveness. for mercy. for acceptance . . . the very thing they hadn’t given me. it shouldn’t have felt so good seeing their eyes light up with recognition, voices turning shrill with terror as they saw the freak. because truly, we’ve all learned about the poetic beauty of victor and his frankenstein, creator being destroyed by his creation.

so i drank their fear down like the sweet melody that it was, savoring their cries with the tip of my tongue.

“don’t you understand?” i wanted to scream. “you created the freak. you drowned me.”

it’s almost amusing that maybe things could’ve ended up differently. that maybe, if they hadn’t crushed me, no one would’ve died. that by becoming the very image of those i loathed, by becoming the villain role that they’d painted for me, i reached a point where i couldn’t turn back. 

but they did laugh. and i did drown. and the song never ended, just increased and rose to a crescendo until the pulsing beat contorted into something that was just begging to be climaxed-

freak.

freak.

freak.

well, look who’s laughing now.

even when the rage that had garnered over all the years finally met their release, and i listened to the wailing sirens completing the concerto as i finally looked down at my hands– stained a glistening scarlet with their blood . . . 

it shouldn’t have felt so good killing them like they had killed me.

after all, i’m nothing but a freak.