Dreamcatcher

[Wham Yubeesling]

”Oh.”

She took a step back. Pushed her boot into the dirt. Looked at the corpse laying down below her.

“Hey, Paris.”

He was laying down, his body crushing the grass in front of her. His eyes were blank, starry, listless as they looked up at the sky, the faintest glimpse of a smile on his face. It was almost like he was back in Denton, as if it was lunchtime and he had decided to lay back and look at the sky as he waited for her to arrive. As he waited for his chance to chide her for being late. As he turned his head and looked at her with that coy expression as she had tried to backpedal explain that the only reason she was late was because Yakubovich had kept her in late with the rest of her class, because some jackasses in the back would fuck around and Yakubitch would tell off the whole class off for what they did. Keep them all back because a couple people apparently just wanted to screw over the rest of the class.

And he would always laugh at her, when she said that. Dismiss her. Act as if she was lying, as if she wasn’t as loyal, as caring towards him as she was.

And there was always a pang of irritation at that, even back then. A brief moment where the world buzzed around her before he asked her how her day had been. Before it all went away. Before her world was filled with happiness and sunshine because her beloved Paris was there, laying down right in front of her.

And he still was.

He was in front of her. Laying down, body crushing the grass. His eyes were blank, starry, listless as they looked up at the sky, his skin beginning to change colour, rot off as she looked away from his smile. Down at his chest. She could see the dents. The parts of his body that had been cracked open. Broken inwards.

And she smiled, as she looked down at his corpse. At his body. She giggled. Laughed, as if there was some sort of aura around forcing her to do that.

And she didn’t know what had been said.

And she didn’t know why she was even laughing.

Well, you wanna know why?

It’s because you were the one who did that to him.

That look in his eyes, the colour of his skin, that giant dent in the middle of his chest?

That was allllllllllll you, girl.

And she laughed.

Because she had.

Because she’d killed him.

Because she had made him feel how she felt, back then. When he fucked her over. When he decided that he was going to lead her on and make her fall in love with him and then drop her as if she was some sort of plaything when he was done. Acted as if they had never even talked to each other after everything was done.

Made her scream.

Made her cry.

Made her feel worse than she’d ever felt in her life.

Made everyone around her - her parents, her siblings, all the people at her school - pity her. Act as if she needed to be coddled. Say that it was okay because there’s always another guy out there.

Besides, he was an asshole anyway.

It’s not like you were in love with him.

It’s not like you still care about him.

And it’s not like he cared more about you than any of us ever did.

And her fists clenched. Her nails dug. Bored themselves into her skin so hard that she would probably see the blood if she looked down at them and-

Relaxed.

Let go of themselves.

Because it was okay. Paris was dead now.

And everyone who did that, now.

And she was sure everyone would know who they needed to fear.

And she giggled. Laughed. As if there was something funny about the whole thing. As if she was back at home, on her computer, looking at something she’d found or nostalging the things her other classmates did. As if there was an aura around this island that made everything light. Everything airy. Everything funny.

And she couldn’t help it.

And she couldn’t stop it.

And she stood there, for a while. Laughing over Paris. Laughing over what she’d done.

Laughing at the fact that she’d finally been able to make him pay.

---

Time passed. The aura faded. She stood over the corpse. Saw its skin begin to rot. Saw his eyes - blank, starry, listless as they looked at the sky.

Saw the smile on his face, saw that final expression he had given even after she’d tried to make him pay. Tried to make him feel the same way she did when he hurt her.

She clenched her fists. Took a step.

Sent her foot towards his face, sent it snapping to the side. Saw the shape of his mouth change to something ugly. Shocked. More fitting.

“Better.”

And she stood there, for a while. Staring at his face. Staring at his body.

And she smiled.

Turned away.

Walked off, never looking back.

((Jasmine King, concluded in Little Fires Everywhere))