The Killing Kind

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Diary of a Mixed-up Girl blog entry, dated October 31, the previous year

You would not believe the fucked-up day I’ve had so far. And on my favorite day of the fucking year. Of all fucking days. I’m so fucking furious. I’m shaking. Like seriously shaking like one of those hard-core alcoholics locked in a detox cell. I keep backing up and starting every sentence over because even though I’m so goddamn angry I can’t get past my anal hatred of typos. Christ, my life is ridiculous.

It’s true. I’m a ridiculous person. Like I’m the boiled-down cliché essence of every tortured fucking goth kid ever. I hate being a TYPE. A fucking category. But I am. I fucking AM, man. The only thing distinguishing me from the rest of Team Gloom is my look. I’ve got that All-American Girl thing happening. I was sort of proud of that. Thought it set me apart. It was the best disguise fucking EVER. No one could ever guess the truth about me or see the darkness inside.

WRONG.

I for sure thought I was fooling the fuck out of my parents. Especially my mother. I always thought she was fucking stupid and clueless, what with that bland, pleasant way of talking, sounding like a fifties housewife. Barely a working brain cell in her bubble head, I thought. Until today. Because it turns out the joke was on me.

This is a lot of beating around the bush. The thought of actually writing it down makes me start shaking again. But fuck it, I’ll just spit it out. Came home from school and right away knew something fucked was happening. First clue was the extra cars parked outside. Came inside and saw all these serious-looking old fucks. I thought somebody had died. A grandparent, maybe. I got a little nervous and started psyching myself up to fake some grief. But then Dad gets up and says some shit that went something like, “Honey, we don’t want you to be mad, because we love you and this is all about how much we totally fucking love you, honey, and holy fuck, but we are so fucking worried and we just want to help you, okay?” And Mom starts bawling.

And suddenly I get what this is. This is one of those intervention things. So I start yelling at them, becoming a fucking profanity machine. But their bullshit goes on and on. Nobody’s here to judge you, sweetie, they tell me. Could you please calm down, could you please fucking calm down? But I keep yelling. I’m fucking screaming. They’re not here to JUDGE me!? Who are they fucking kidding!!!?

After a while some of them got all pissed off too and pretty soon everybody was screaming. The relatives. Some neighbors. Our family fucking doctor, for fuck’s sake. I was surprised a priest wasn’t there to conduct an exorcism. Seriously. That’s how crazy this whole overblown thing is. The hysteria just kept building and building until Dad slapped the shit out of me.

No shit. I am not kidding. The bastard walloped me. And I got sent to my room, just like a little kid. That’s where I am now. Waiting. Fucking scared shitless how this is gonna work out. I can hear them all down there. Talking about me. Nobody’s gone. Somebody’s crying. Probably you’re wondering what this is all about. It all goes back to that video I uploaded. Yeah, that one. The rabbit thing. Some parent got wind of it and sent Dad a link. He started putting this whole intervention debacle together as soon as he saw it. He asked around about me. Talked to my friends. Somebody out there spilled some more of my secrets.

I thought I could trust most of you. Thought making this a private journal would prevent shit like this. Guess I learned my lesson, huh? Somebody reading this has a big fucking mouth. I wish I knew who. Really. Because I’d fucking kill you. For real. Post a comment with your confession and I’ll be out the window and on my way to slit your fucking throat faster than you can say, “I’m a miserable, worthless fucking snitch who should be gutted like a pig.”

This is the last entry most of you will see. I’m deleting everybody I don’t totally fucking trust tonight. FUCK YOU DIE!!!!!!!

Note: Above entry contained seventy-three responses before the journal owner locked it. A sampling follows below.

lord_ruthven: You do need help and you know it. This had to happen.

Mixedupgirl: Fuck. I knew it was you. YOU’RE DEAD.

lord_ruthven: Threats don’t scare me, Julie. You should know that by now. And anyway, your snitch is somebody else. I’d tell you otherwise. You should know that, too.

Mixedupgirl: Yeah. I guess I do, at that. But I still fucking hate you.

lord_ruthven: So delete me.

Mixedupgirl: No. I can’t. And YOU should know that.