Reflections of Your Hate

The eerie surrounding of the graveyard sends a chill down Jane’s back. She walks across the cemetery in silence, her head downwards to avoid enquiring stares of the mourners around her. She is not particularly bothered by them, but she is slightly annoyed that her carefully chosen clothes to blend in with the somber party do nothing to deter those busybodies from staring at her. She heads straight to the coffin mounted on the freshly dug earth, her eyes blinking rapidly to avoid the tears from falling. But her heart is breaking, even as she denies it.

Beautiful, loving Wayne. The love of her life, not that she has many lovers to begin with. Her hands quiver as she slowly looks up to the hard, cold wooden box that is engraved with her lover’s name. She lost him, and to the most bizarre situation. To laugh at the irony of his death is a torment to her, but yet she cannot suppress a giggle. Crying mourners shoot a threatening look at her.

How can she not laugh when he died in a circus act? But then again, how can she laugh when she had lost him? Ever since she knew him, he had always bragged that even if he was to die, he would die in the place he loved the most, in the circus. He had always been a clown, when she needed a laugh; Wayne was always there to lure a smile into her face. She used to laugh at his lack of seriousness but three years into the relationship, she found solitude in his company. And he made the first move to break up with her, which angered her to no end.

To die after choking on a rubber ball that was supposed to entertain the kids, Wayne was a hero to the innocent chuckling children as they watched his face turned from an entertaining green to blue to white. However, as he remained unmoving for the next five minutes, one of the kids began to smarten up and whined to his wispy-haired babysitter in a huge fedora hat, who was only ten feet away that the clown had fallen asleep.

Poor, big-hearted Wayne. But then again, maybe he deserved to die. Jane is not exactly the kind of girl who takes shit from a man and moves on. No, she is not that innocent. She might look it but her past is as shitty as yours and mine. Her disturbed past has kept her cold and heartless but no, she does not show it.

Her mother died when she was seven, bled to death after a drug injection with a needle went horribly wrong and Jane watched as her mother’s eyes turned yellow. Her father, a stupid fat alcoholic cared like a total stranger and did not bother to give her mother a proper burial. A simple thrash bag into the ugly, green dumpster and she was gone from Jane’s life. Her father later died in a hit and run car accident when she was ten. She held her father as he slowly went into a coma, and left after his last breath. She walked away from the scene, abandoning her past.

Jane scraped through her life with the miserable money she earned by letting voracious old men touch her little breasts. At that time, she considered herself lucky that she was never sexually assaulted by any of her customers. But looking back to it now, she wishes she had at least stabbed one or two of them in the buttocks with a fork.

When she was seventeen, she was spotted by a talent scout in a car park, sleeping like a ragged doll on the hard concrete floor she had covered with a dusty blanket, one of her last possessions from her parents. The talent scout watched her sleep under the burning sun, and wondered how could such a beautiful girl ended up this way, in this path. He woke her up and brought her home, bedded her and made her a supermodel in less than six months. Her skinny body was what the modeling agency wanted. She became famous and was on every high-listed designer’s runways.

Jane, poor Jane. When she turned 23, she began to take drugs, a trait she blamed on her dead mother. She lived and thrived on morphine and cocaine. Her frequent drug injections into her arms were turning her arms hideous green. When her agency discovered she was too skinny to fit into any of their clothes, they cancelled her contract. But her so-called boyfriends befriended her, bedded her like a Barbie doll and made sweet deals with her to sell her body. She relented, her life was meant to be that way. She surrendered to her destiny, she claimed. Oh, but maybe Jane is smarter than that.

A year later, when the man she was living with threw her up against the wall and forced a hot iron onto her arm, she turned hysterical and stabbed him nineteen times in the stomach. She disposed the body under the basement floor and moved out the next day. From then onwards, her lust to kill those who hurt her shot up to an ultimate ecstasy.

One by one, her boyfriends disappeared and died in strange circumstances. She answered the questions with extreme composure and convinced the police she had no part in it. The cases were closed and deemed unsolved and put away in the file cabinet. Her fans from her short-lived modelling stint showered her with letters of sympathy.

Ten years later, we see Jane the way she is now, standing with her head bowed in front of another dead lover, her wispy hair covering her little smirk. Her saggy posture suggests as if that Jane is bedridden with grief over her ex-lover’s death but underneath it all, she is just another killer - a killer who kills for thrills. She gets a high from seeing her naked lovers writhing with pain on the rich, polished floor, begging her, crying for help and their eyes darting all over to search for an escape. To Jane, that is her life. That is her destiny.


Who do I see but you…
I am afraid of you… afraid for you.

What if it isn’t him but you?
It IS not him but you.

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Published:
1.16.07 / 2am
Category:
Stories