Vengeance is kind of like a drug.

Or I assume it is. I’ve never taken drugs. I haven’t even been drunk. But I am finding myself addicted to getting even.

If you had met me three weeks ago, you probably wouldn’t even remember me. Most people haven’t, for most of my life. That’s why I have been shoved around, talked down to, had my piece of cake stolen from right in front of me, and had all kinds of movies spoilered even though I begged for people to stop before they revealed a crucial plot point. I’ve been given the wrong change, on purpose, people have talked about me like I’m not there, and my mother has always given my brother his meals first. None of that stuff happens now.

Nineteen days ago, I woke up at 3:03AM to the sound of breathing.

I live alone.

To say I was terrified doesn’t begin to describe my emotion. I blasted past terror before my eyes were all the way open. I couldn’t even see terror in the rear-view mirror as I reached out toward the sound of the breathing and touched…you know I don’t know what I touched, but it felt like my hand was sunburned. The pain threw me so far off that I forgot to be scared and I shouted ‘What the hell?’

The breathing turned into laughter – a deep rattling laugh that would cause a doctor to break out her stethoscope.

‘Hell, indeed, dear girl.’

The heat in front of me began to glow, like the embers at the end of the bonefire, and I could make out the shape of what could only be Lucifer himself standing in my bedroom.

What do you say when the devil drops in on you in the middle of the night? I went with the every eloquent ‘I. I. Um.’

He laughed again.

‘I’ll save you the strain, dear girl. Don’t even try to figure out. Your number has come up! Your wish for vengeance against the parking cop drew my attention, and here I am. For the next 21 days, you don’t have to wish you could take revenge, you’ll just be inclined to do it. Whatever you think of, you’ll be able to do. Without conscience, without any ‘I don’t think I can.’, without any concern at all.’

As soon as he finished speaking, he just kind of winked out, like he had been doused. The room felt a lot colder with him gone, but I was so infused with the heat of righteous anger that I bolted out of bed and got right to work. I sent some emails that got people fired, I made some phone calls that put marriages on the rocks, I walked down the street shoving at people, and I punched a friend right in the face for ruining a movie.

And here I am, slashing the tires of my high school principal who said I would never amount to much. It’s been 10 years since high school, but you just never forget that stuff. The best part? I still have two whole days left to find the playground bullies from elementary school!

(I wrote this last Saturday and couldn’t post it right away. I just realized that I never posted it at all.)

         Why is it that you some kids do weird things and you know they are just fully embracing their own weirdness and other kids do weird things and you know they are just desperately seeking attention?

            Ellie could handle the first type of kids but the second ones made her classroom hell. It was easy to keep a lid on the ones who were content in their own oddness, their behaviour might make other people edgy but it didn’t spill all over them the way that the attention seekers’ actions did.

            The attention seekers got a bit too loud, they were a bit too in your face, their performance art lives required audience participation. It wasn’t enough for them to be weird; they needed to know that you knew that they were weird and that they were happy about it.

            They weren’t though. They weren’t at all happy about it. Ellie figured that was what made her so twitchy around them. They reminded her of every last one of her own teen angst insecurities and they took her back to that twisting mess with every shout, with every cry for connection.

            She knew she should just give to them, that if they needed the attention, that it would be a kindness to just shower them with it, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. There was some validation for her in it, in her refusal to play along, her standing steadfast against the foolishness that they were indulging in. Almost like she were feeling victorious about not being tricked into giving the response they wanted.

            But deep in that smug feeling was a sliver of pain, a splinter, that said that withholding her attention wasn’t serving anyone. It wasn’t helping her in any way and it certainly wasn’t helping the kids. There had to be a way to make it less painful all around, something a little less raw for everyone, but how did you indulge foolishness part way? You had to either fall fully into it, or dismiss it entirely.

            She had to figure it out though. If they were putting this much energy and effort into a cry for attention, their need must run deep.