Most people that know me know I am a writer. And sometimes I wonder what they think of me not having a full-time job and I get the chance to be at home more than I should. Most of my close friends taught me to not think about what other people think of me. Think about yourself and just be happy. Since I moved out on my own and into my first apartment I’ve been more wiser and a lot more confident than I have before. I don’t have people standing around me saying “You can’t do that, stop being so lazy, you did a half ass job. You don’t know how to do that.” It’s been nice to not hear those things anymore. Durning that time I did get my revenge in my writing. Anybody that was mean to me throughout my school years and years later I out them through hell in my short story’s and novels. I didn’t use their real names and what they looked like. I gave the characters different names and different traits.
In my novel Awakened Evil there are two boys that are friends and they both end up getting killed by Inga the witch who is from Salem, Massachusetts. The two boys are two boys I went to school with. I remember I had art class with them and they would tease me and throw things at me. When I would turn around and give them an evil glare they would laugh. I was always scared to go to art class because they wouldn’t stop picking on me. The only thing the art teacher did was move them to a different seat. It kind of helped, but I could still hear them laughing in the background and talking to themselves.
Another time I got my print in revenge was a girl on the school bus that would tell the little kids to throw things at me or to sit behind me and kick my seat. When I turned around to confront them they would act like they weren’t doing anything, even though they knew they were. The girl wouldn’t let me sit past the emergency seat. When I would get on the bus she always stood in the middle of the alley and gave me a mean glare like I was a disgusting human. I knew she hated me with the guts. She would sit in the seat across from me and would kick my arm and laught. I remember one day she had her foot on the edge of my seat and she wouldn’t stop nudging at me so I pushed her foot away from me and her foot fell down and she was shocked that I did that. Then she gave me a look like don’t even.
When she first stared to drive she stopped riding the bus and the other kids in the back as well. The next year I had the whole back to myself.
Years later, I used a couple of those kids, uncluding the girl that was mean to me in a couple writing ideas I had. I was so upet and angry that I gave her a horrible death.
Now that I’m way older and I live on my own, I’m not mad or upset about it anymore. But sometimes I think back and wonder why she bullied me. Was she trying to be cool in front of the other kids in the back. Was she taking her anger out on me? I don’t know if I really want to know. It’s in the past. Forget and move on.
Now these days when someone treats me like shit or talks to me like I’m stuiod and dumb or I don’t know what I’m doing, that really makes me mad and who ever treated me like that I used them in a story, but I gave them a different name and a differnet apperance and gave them a horrble death. And when I do people ask me is that chacrtor me. I always say “I’m not saying. A writer never reveals that.” I don’t people who my chacators really are. That’s my seccret. I don’t even tell my cats.
So, the saying goes, don’t mess with a writer. They get their revenge in print.