Perfect Little Monsters and Other Stories

by Amy Cross

  I can't help smiling as I click to send him a message.

  “Hey, butt-face,” I continue, as I type. “I saw what you wrote on that Wizards message-board, and I wanted to let you know that you're a complete moron.” I pause for a moment, before deleting that last word and replacing it with 'dork'; sighing, I re-read the line before retyping again, sticking with 'moron' after all. I think 'moron' will upset him more. “You are a worthless sack of shit,” I type, “and you should do everyone a favor and go kill yourself. Everyone hates you anyway. Seriously, hang yourself.”

  I lean back and read the message over, before hitting the 'Send' button. I wish I could tap into that loser's webcam and see his expression when he gets the message, especially since I've been sending him similar advice for the past two weeks. Still, there's no time to dwell on that particular ass-hat, not when I've got so many more on the hook. With the VPN still enabled, I bring up my private message-box and see that a few of my other targets have taken the bait and responded.

  “Who are you?” I read out loud after opening a message from Sally Gladwell. I let out a guffaw. She's so dumb. “Why are you sending me these horrible messages? Please stop or I'll go to the police.”

  “Yeah, right,” I mutter, switching to another message. “Good luck with that, you ugly bitch.”

  “I bet you're not so brave face to face,” I read from the screen. “How about you send one of these messages from your real account, so I can see who you are? Even better, why don't you come and say it to my face?”

  “Dream on,” I say with a smile, before flicking through the other shocked responses from my targets. It's so predictable to see how they always whine and bitch, but all they're really doing is proving their loserdom even more. Still grinning, I check the rest of the messages, before pausing as I realize that there's still one ass-wipe who hasn't replied.

  I take a moment to check my junk folder, before leaning back and staring at the screen.

  “So, David M. McLellan,” I mutter, “how come you're the only one who never takes my bait?” I go into my folder of sent messages, and sure enough I see the dozen I've sent him over the past three weeks, pointing out his stupidity, ugliness and general lack of worth to the human race. Frustratingly, he hasn't responded to any of them, even though I know they've been read.

  “I hope you die in a fire,” I type, after opening a new message-box to him, “and I hope that before it happens, you realize just how much everyone in the whole world hates your guts.”

  I send the message, before leaning back and feeling a gurgle of hunger in my belly. I'm hungry, but the last thing I want is to go back through and take one of Mom's stupid pancakes, so I guess I'll just have to go to the store. God, I hate going to the store!

  ***

  “Hey Molly!” Jake Spanner calls out as I walk past him and his friends. “What are you up to today?”

  “Nothing,” I reply, trying not to make eye contact.

  “Hey Molly!” he shouts as I keep walking. “Come back here! I just wanna talk to you! Molly, don't you wanna be friends?”

  “Not really,” I mutter, crossing the street. “I try not to be friends with people I hate.”

  Figuring that it'll be easier to take a short-cut through the park, I hurry along the next street and then cross over to the path that leads around the edge of the parking lot. I'm sure my wonderful parents and my sick little brother are having a great time stuffing their faces with pancakes, but I swear to God I'd have thrown up if I'd been forced to sit and listen to their inane chatter. I hate everything they talk about, and I hate the way they pretend to enjoy eating together. They're just lying their asses off anyway, pretending to be the perfect family.

  I cross the street and take a left, hurrying along the alley that leads to the path. Of course, the store was devoid of anything that I might actually like when I dropped by a few minutes ago, but at least they had muffins. Opening one of the little plastic packets, I slip the muffin out and take a big bite. God, I'm so hungry, I might just eat all -

  Suddenly someone grabs me from behind, slamming some kind of wet cloth over my mouth. I try to pull away, but there's a stinging sensation in my mouth and nose, and in a split second my body feels totally heavy. Even as I try to cry out, I'm already slumping to the ground, and the last thing I feel before I pass out is someone grabbing my legs and dragging me across the gravel.

  Two

  When I open my eyes, I find that I'm sitting in a dark room. The only light comes from a small, square window on the far wall, and I can see flowers out there, gently swaying in the breeze. I try to get up, but my hands and waist are tied to a chair, and the chair seems to be bolted to the ground. I try again, but I can't move a goddamn inch.

  “Hello?” I call out.

  I try to twist my hands free from the rope, but I'm tied too tight.

  “Is this some kind of joke?” I continue, trying not to panic as I wriggle on the chair, desperately trying to stretch the rope so I can get away. “Whoever you are, you're completely lame! I hate jokes!”

  I pull on the rope again, but suddenly I stop as I realize I can hear footsteps approaching from behind. I wait, but the footsteps stop, and when I turn I find that I can't quite see the figure. There's definitely someone standing behind me, though, 'cause I can hear him breathing.

  “Bobby, is that you?” I ask. “Bobby, it's cold down here. Can you go play your stupid, retarded game somewhere else? I'm so not in the mood! Do you realize how much I have to get done today?”

  I wait, and after a moment the figure steps around me. Looking up, I see that he's wearing all black, and even his face is covered by some kind of dark, featureless mask that looks all twisted and bent, almost melted. It's kinda cool, I guess, in a dorky kinda way.

  “Maybe you didn't get the memo,” I continue, “but Halloween was last -”

  Suddenly he slams the back of his hand across my face, hard enough to twist my head around. I let out a gasp of pain, and I swear I can feel a trickle of blood running down my cheek.

  “What the actual hell?” I shout, still feeling a stinging sensation as the figure walks toward the far wall. “Whoever the hell you are, that was way beyond a joke! I demand that you untie me right now!”

  He stops, and then slowly he turns to me.

  “Bobby?” I continue, squinting in an attempt to see him better. “Is it you?” I wait, but there's no reply. “Okay,” I add with a sigh, “whoever you are, you just officially and literally crossed a line. You can't just slap me and expect me to play nice! Untie me from this goddamn chair right now, or I'll... I'll...” I pause, trying to think of the worst possible threat. “I'll go to the cops,” I add finally. “Yeah, you didn't see that coming, did you? You think this is a joke, but I'll go to the goddamn cops and it won't be so funny when they haul your sorry ass off to a cell! This is assault! You'll end up in some jail somewhere, getting your asshole shredded by your bunk-mates. How fun does that sound, huh?”

  He doesn't respond at all. He simply stands there, watching me from behind his mask.

  “Are you retarded?” I ask. “Uh, hello, but are you mentally slow? This is kidnapping! It's not even funny!” I pull on the rope again, but my wrists are already starting to feel sore. “I hate stupid games,” I mutter. “You are so dead when I get out of this. You're messing with the wrong girl.”

  “What makes you think you'll get out of it?” he asks.

  I pause for a moment, trying to work out where I've heard that voice before. It's familiar, but at the same time I just can't place it properly. Maybe I heard it at school or in town, but I'm starting to think maybe I heard it online instead. Whoever he is, he's definitely not my brother. He sounds quite a bit older.

  “Do you think you're funny?” I ask finally.

  He pauses. “Do you think I'm funny?”

  “I asked first,” I point out.

  I wait, but this time he doesn't say anything.

  “You're not funny,” I continue. “
You're a dork. Do you have any idea how serious this is? Maybe in your little bedroom, when you were rubbing your neck-beard with one hand and your dick with the other, you thought kidnapping me would be funny, but it's actually, like, a felony.” Again I wait for him to say something, but he's just standing there. “Do you realize,” I add, “that I have your life in my hands right now? If I go to the cops and press charges, you're finished! You'll have a record forever, and I might even say you touched my boob or something, so you end up on a list. How does that grab you, gas-bag? Wanna be forced to register as a perv for the rest of your life?”

  I wait, but he's still just standing there like some kind of idiot.

  Letting out a grunt of frustration, I try once again to get out of the goddamn rope.

  “You're a dick,” I mutter, “do you know that? Whoever you are, you're a total dick. I hate crap like this!”

  “Hate?”

  “Yes!” I hiss. “I hate it, and I hate people like you!”

  “You use that word a lot,” he replies calmly, having apparently found his goddamn tongue at last. “Is there anything you don't hate, Molly?”

  “I hate people who ask stupid questions,” I tell him.

  He lets out a brief sniff. I think that's maybe his way of laughing.

  “Something funny?” I ask.

  “You don't even know what the word 'hate' means.”

  I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Huh?”

  “You used that word in almost every sentence, and almost every message you send online, but I don't think you know what it means to actually hate someone or something.” He takes a step toward me. “You fling that word about so much, it's lost all meaning.”

  “Uh, whatever,” I reply, struggling again with the ropes around my wrists. “In your douche-bag opinion, maybe, but no-one gives a damn what you think.”

  “You've never hated anyone,” he continues, taking another step toward me, “not really. Maybe you get worked up, maybe you get angry and your little temper boils over, but you've never even come closer to feeling real, pure hatred in your heart.”

  “Says who?” I ask, still trying to get free from this goddamn rope.

  He comes a little closer, until finally he's towering over me.

  “Real hatred,” he continues, “isn't just a feeling. It's something much, much worse.”

  “Really?” I reply, barely able to stifle a laugh. “Are you gonna try to be all deep now?”

  “Real hatred consumes your soul,” he continues. “Real hatred starts as a seed in your heart and grows from there, spreading its roots through your body until no part of you has been spared. Real hatred leaves you shivering and shaking on the floor, it burns through your soul until there's nothing left, nothing else matters, and you can only think about the object of that hatred. And hatred binds you, Molly. When you hate another human being, you bind your soul to theirs, the same as if you love them. It hurts, Molly. It hurts so much to truly hate someone.”

  I stare at him for a moment, before finally bursting out laughing.

  “You don't agree?” he asks.

  “I think you're boring me,” I tell him. “You don't think I can hate someone? Well, I hate you right now, so how's that? I really, truly hate -”

  Suddenly he slams his left knee against my face, knocking me back as I feel two of my teeth crunching out of my gums and filling my mouth with blood. The pain is so intense and so strong, it pushes all thoughts out of my mind for a few seconds, and at the same time I feel tears welling in my eyes as I tug on the rope around my wrists. I pull harder and harder, filled with panic as the pain intensifies.

  “What the hell?” I stammer, spitting blood and two broken teeth out. As the blood dribble down my chin, I stare at the guy in front of me, and my heart is pounding. A moment later, I realize tears are rolling down my cheek, and my bottom lip is starting to tremble. “What the hell did you just do?” I ask, using tip of my tongue to feel the spot where those two lower front teeth used to be. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I shout. “What the actual hell are you doing?”

  “Do you hate me now?” he asks calmly.

  “What the fuck?” I hiss, before turning and trying to look back across the room. “Help!” I shout, at the top of my voice. “Somebody help me!”

  “No-one can hear you,” he replies. “I made sure of that.”

  Turning to him, I realize that this asshole might actually be out of his mind. I stare at him for a moment, before spotting the window behind him, with flowers still blowing in a breeze outside. “Help!” I scream. “Help me! I'm in here with a complete psychopath!”

  “Is that what you think I am?” he asks. “Interesting.”

  “What the hell do you want?” I reply, sniffing back tears. My whole body is trembling now, partly with shock and partly with pure, unremitting anger. “You'd better let me out of here right now, or I swear to God I will make sure you end up rotting in a jail cell for the rest of your life!”

  “Really?”

  “Let me go!” I shout, lunging forward only for the ropes to hold me tight against the chair. “Let me out of here!”

  “Do you hate me?” he asks.

  “What?” Realizing that he's insane, I stare up at his mask for a moment. “Yeah,” I continue, “I hate you. You just knocked out two of my goddamn teeth, you asshole, of course I fucking hate you!” With that, I let out a gasp of pain.

  He pauses, before shaking his head.

  “What?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

  “It means you're wrong,” he continues. “It means you don't hate me. You still don't even know how to hate someone.”

  “Help!” I scream, louder than ever. “Somebody help me!”

  “You're wasting your breath.”

  “Help!”

  “You can shout until your throat is shredded,” he says calmly, “but no-one will ever, ever hear you. That's a promise.”

  “What do you want?” I ask, trembling with rage.

  He tilts his head slightly, like a goddamn dog.

  “What do you want?” I shout. “What the fuck do you want?”

  “You're so angry all the time,” he replies. “I've seen some of the things you post online, Molly, and some of the messages you send to people. What's wrong with you?”

  “What's -” Pausing, I feel a shiver as I start to realize that this guy really might be a psychopath. Like, an actual, seriously dangerous individual. “What's wrong with me?” I ask cautiously, trying not to let him know that I'm scared. “I'm not the one who kidnaps people and injects them and...” Stopping suddenly, I think back to that moment when I felt the wet cloth on my face. “What did you drug me with?”

  “It doesn't matter.”

  “What did you drug me with?” I shout.

  “It doesn't matter, Molly.”

  “What did you drug me with?” I scream, pulling against the ropes but still not managing to make them budge. “What the fuck did you put in my body, you psychotic bastard? I demand to know!”

  “You're focusing on the wrong thing.”

  “What did you put in me?”

  “Molly, let's talk about -”

  “Help!” I scream, and my throat is already starting to hurt with the effort. “Help me! Somebody help me! Get the police! Help!”

  “Molly -”

  “Help me! Somebody help!”

  “Maybe you need to get this out of your system,” he mutters, stepping past me and disappearing from my field of vision. “I'll let you wear yourself hoarse a little.”

  “Help!” I scream, my whole body shaking now as I try desperately to get free from the chair. “Help me! Somebody get me out of here!”

  Three

  “Have you calmed down now, Molly?”

  Staring at him, I feel a slow, cold sense of hatred rising through my chest. Real hatred, more than I've ever felt for anyone in my life. Whatever this asshole wants, he's clearly not just some dumb prankster, but I still hold out hope that he's no
t a total psycho. He probably thinks he's going to teach me a lesson, but he's wrong on that count. Before this is over, I will make sure his miserable, pathetic ass ends up in jail forever.

  No-one messes with me and gets away with it.

  “You were shouting for a good half hour,” he continues, sounding so goddamn pleased with himself. “I was impressed, although toward the end I noticed a change in your voice. Tell me, does your throat hurt?”

  “Go to hell,” I reply, although he's right, my throat is agony and my voice sounds horribly damaged and rough.

  “Go to hell?” He pauses. “Well, I know I'm not the first person you've ever said that to. You also like to tell people to kill themselves, don't you? Your online messages are full of graphic descriptions of how you think your targets should die. Why don't you tell me to kill myself, Molly?”

  “Is that what this is?” I ask. “Are you some asshole I met on the internet? Did I hurt your feelings with some nasty words?”

  “No, Molly,” he replies, “it's nothing as simple as that.”

  “If this is about some of the mean things I've said to people,” I continue, “then fine, you've made your point. I won't do any of that stuff anymore. No more messages and no more taunting people.”

  I wait for him to say something.

  “Happy?” I ask.

  He pauses, before shaking his head.

  “Look, I didn't mean most of it, anyway,” I tell him. “It's just... You know what it's like. You say stuff but only for the effect, not because you literally mean the exact words. And sure, some of it comes out sounding mean, but people are tough, they can take it. Only wimps actually get upset, but if you think I've gone too far, then fine. I'm sorry.”

  Again I wait.

  “Did you hear me?” I ask.

  He stares at me.

  “I'm sorry,” I say again. “Like, really, truly sorry. From the bottom of my heart.”