Scarlet’s Justice

It was a dark night; just as she had predicted. The trees swayed lightly with a chilled breeze, and the only indication of their presence was the massive black outline they created against the blue-black curtain of the heavens. The girl named Scarlet shivered and pulled her knit sweater closer. Her shoulder-length hair was mousy brown, and rather frizzy. It was tied back in a low ponytail. She wore baggy clothes, but that could not hide the smallness and frailty of her body. Bruises and cuts adorned her face, and although it could not be seen, there were bruises and abrasions all over the rest of her, as well.

            The woods were getting darker – and creepier. Somewhere nearby a twig snapped and an owl hooted. She continuously stumbled over the hilly, rocky ground. Her flashlight flickered and she sighed with worry.

            It didn’t take her long to reach the adobe hut. The windows were screen-less and glass-less, and the dim orange light from within danced and swayed with silent and malicious presence.

            Standing outside the woven-cloth door, she pulled out her pencil and pad of paper. What should she say? She didn’t even know quite what she was doing there, and yet, here she was. What could she say about her situation that would possibly fit on the tiny little sheets of paper?

            Could she say that there were simply some bullies that she wanted to leave her alone? Would the word “bully” do them justice in the slightest? She wondered…

            Thinking back now, she remembered the lead girl, Alicia, talking to her in low and threatening tones after the teacher had given her praise about her composition. How beautiful it was, he had said. How deep and moving. Alicia hadn’t liked that. “Little girl, that had better not happen again. Do you know how long I worked on that project? I will not have you - frumpy little mouse-girl - outdoing me, have you got that?” And then a sweet smile and a friendly pat on Scarlet’s back as the teacher walked by.

            Alicia. She had always been in the same classes as Scarlet. She had always been popular. Always the center of everyone’s attentions and affections. She had always been the star athlete and the very example of feminine strength and beauty. Had always been the teacher’s pet. She had everything that Scarlet did not. Was everything that Scarlet was not. How could she compete? The concept of competition, or even defense, had been discarded long ago. There was simply nothing that could be done.

            Tears stung Scarlet’s eyes as she remembered when Alicia and her friends had been feeling especially malicious. They had taken a pair of scissors and slashed her back. Her shirt was torn and bloody, but of course the teacher hadn’t noticed. The moment she felt the blades go into her back, she gripped the sides of the desk and waited for them to be finished. She had no voice, how could she cry out in pain, for someone to help her, for the love of god, someone stop them – how could she?

            The wounds – a total of sixteen long slashes – took some hundred stitches and three months to heal completely. And was Alicia punished? No. There was always someone to cover for her. Someone always there to lie and act and say, “Scarlet did it to herself, that’s what I think if you ask me. Of course! Didn’t you know? She’s been like that since she was born. If you ask me, she can’t talk because she just doesn’t have the wits,” and there would be an all-knowing nod and “there it is” expression. Yes. There was always someone.

            The gust of wind that blew across her face brought her back to earth. The pencil in her hand had broken and the pad of paper was wrinkled and torn. She smoothed out the paper and began to ponder again of what to write. The note would be left on the windowsill with a sum of money – such had always been the tradition in this type of service. To commission revenges, curses, and killings - this was how it must be done. It had to be completely impersonal between the commissioner of the services and the performer.

            What was it she wanted? Revenge? Yes. That was definite. She wanted them to suffer. She wanted them to feel pain. They should get exactly what she had gotten. They should be cut and hurt as she had been, and feel just as helpless and trapped and weak. They should receive something that would teach them about real pain, real suffering! It was for their own good, of course. Even in her thirst for revenge she was still a Good Samaritan. They would learn their lesson, and she would have her vengeance. Everyone would be better off.

            It was her mother’s voice that then echoed through her mind, shaking the foundation of her budding hatred. “Don’t mind them, sweetheart. They just don’t know what they do. There’s nothing to be done about it. Inside they’re just frightened children. Children don’t know what they do. They don’t know the pain they cause.”

            Scarlet choked out a sob, and took a step back from the door, ready to turn around and bolt from the place. This was bad – it was wrong! Revenge was not the solution!

            …Was it?

            Truly… Was it not so much revenge as it was justice? Not for simple spite or petty disagreements, no. This was a type of evil she was dealing with. Those girls may have been frightened children but they were also ignorant. And while ignorance may be bliss, it is also the cause of hatred. It was true, they didn’t know what they did, but that was the worst part of it. It is what made them evil. They would continue to hurt her – and kill her a little more with each unknowing words and action, simply because they did not know!

            Yes, that was the way to put it. They were killing her; slowly though, yes, as slowly as the ocean erodes a rock beached in the sand. With each crash of the waves she was carried farther out, buried further in the sand, her will to live and continue to stand against the current, was slipping away. So could the rock, silent and unmoving, and slowly crumbling from the inside, run away from the shore?

            Of course not. Not without help.

            And so she wrote on the crumpled paper fervently with her broken pencil, tears streaming down her face as all of the horrible memories came back to her. Daring not to turn around as Alicia and a group of various other students threw small, sharp rocks at her. They left small, almost invisible little white dots on her arms and legs, like snow, but not quite. That was their favorite torment. Mostly because they could tell – the next day she came to school there were some little dots that were bandaged but there were others that one could not possibly notice until they began to bleed and the most inopportune times. It was a sign of lasting pain to those girls. It was a sign that they could create something that would not be gone the next day, or erased from memory, no matter how cruel.

            The note was now complete. Every single name… It was left on the sill with a sum of money, an amount which she thought was right for the job. She paused for a moment, looking at the silver-gray words on the tiny sheets seeming to join in the mystical orange fire-dance which consumed all that the light from the hut touched. She had barely noticed. From inside there was a low and nearly inaudible chanting sound... It was low and basso, as a far off rumble thunder. The wind picked up speed and as the gust that passed over her sighed upward, she felt her cares be carried off with it. All was taken care of. It would be fixed. It would be righted. Her worries were over.

Well… It’s been quite a while since I’ve written one of these. Strange that it has a happy ending. That’s not normal with my work.

Actually, this is an assignment for creative writing (my teacher is somewhat of a doofus this year, sadly. Anyone else think the high school language arts programs are going to shit?). I was planning on writing some twisted ending after the given ^ up there, but some kid in my class told me it was fine as is. So yeah. I wasn’t really motivated for this story anyway. Reviews? Yes, those would be nice. Doesn’t really matter though. If you decide to, please tell me if you think the ending was half-assed or not. It would be great to get an unbiased opinion.

-QueSeraSera

PS – Although I’m sure you won’t care… I was listening to Dmitri Shostakovich’s Concerto No.1 for Cello and Orchestra, Op. 107. The Allegretto (I) while writing this. I’m almost positive that you really don’t give a damn, but I felt like putting that in. It’s a great song. ^___^