by S Berry

Disclaimers: All the characters belong to me.

Warnings: No sex, no swearing, but there is some violence and it deals with insanity.

Author's note: I wrote this in eleventh grade for a creative writing class. It's exactly as I first penned it. I've been pestered for examples of my early work and this is all you're getting. *grin* If you want to know more, write me and I'll be happy to tell you the story behind it.

Feedback: Sure, send all praises, offers of mental help, and Dr. Pepper to sberrythebard@yahoo.com. If you'd like to join my list, please do: groups.yahoo.com/group/SBerrysStories/.

Copyright © 2004 by S Berry. All Rights Reserved.

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Stormy Winslow, bane of my existence. Her sneering eyes -- oh, god, those eyes; those rapist eyes that violated the soul -- and that smile, that smile that wasn't really a smile, more of a knife -- a knife being thrust into the heart, the mind, the very soul -- both serving to chip away slowly, ever so slowly, at my sanity. I couldn't escape her -- she was everywhere. We worked together, went to school together, practically went to the bathroom together. Only in my room was I safe.

I must tell this rationally, or you'll think me mad. I'm not; I'm not mad; I'm as sane as anyone who has suffered under her gaze -- !

All right. I'm calm now. See how sane I really am?

It all began when I started to work at the Moonglow Café as general kitchen help. Stormy had been working there for a year or so already, so our boss asked her to show me the ropes. That's when she began to hang me, hang me with that figurative rope -- !

All right. All right, I'm calm now.

Where was I? Oh yes. Stormy started in on me from the moment she first saw me. I couldn't win. If I took the time to do things her way, she complained that I was taking too long; and if I speeded up, she complained that I wasn't doing it right. It was the dishes that first night. I washed a while, leaving the clean dishes in the sink for rinsing. Stormy saw me doing this and went into a tirade, looking at me with those eyes, those eyes -- ! NO!

All right. I'm calm now.

She opened the speech with, "What *are* you, stupid? Everyone knows you wash a dish, then immediately rinse it! Everyone else in the world can do it right, why can't you? Oh, God, of all the people in the world, why did I have to get saddled with a moron?" that last was to herself, eyes to the ceiling. I didn't think she wanted a reply, so I just stared into the dishwater, quietly seething. What could I say anyway? It was my first day of work; I didn't want to add to the animosity. Besides, I figured she was just having a bad night and the situation would improve.

It didn't. If anything, it got worse. Every night, the same speech with slight variations. "You can't use a *blender*? What kind of moron can't use a *blender*?" The kind that would dearly love to cream your tongue with one, I thought. I still didn't dare say anything aloud because of those eyes, those evil eyes, and that smile, that barracuda smile that -- !

All right. I'm calm now.

Having her call me twenty-seven kinds of moron was bad enough, but she insisted on doing it in front of everyone in the kitchen - everyone except for the boss. She was as sweet as could be in front of him. Since she was the boss's pet, I couldn't go to h im about it. I tried, but he the same as called me a liar. He said, "I've never had any trouble from her in almost two years." That's how long she'd worked there. "If I hear any more negative reports, I'm afraid I'll have to let you go."

I suppose you're wondering why I didn't just quit. I couldn't. I wanted to apply for a summer internship at the newspaper, and my mom didn't think I could last the summer. If I could hold down a job until March, she'd let me apply. Quitting would just show that I wasn't mature enough to work at the paper. Being a reporter was all I'd ever wanted, even when I was little. So being an intern was important job training. I had to apply!

Something had to be done, however. Days and weeks passed, and March was still months away, and Stormy showed no signs of stopping her reign of terror - and terror it was. Terror of another lecture - another humiliating rebuke for a lack never before known; of perhaps talking back and making it worse. The fear an animal in the headlights must feel when it knows collision is imminent. Paralyzing, that's the fear Stormy gave me - her eyes paralyzing, paralyzing my voice, my breath, my mind - and there was no escape - no escape, I tell you! No way to avoid her; no way to stop her wrath, no way to deflect it. The refrain sang through my mind constantly. "No way out, no way out, no way out, you can't escape, no way to break free!" Again and again and - no, no, NO! I must stop, must stop this remembering - I can't, I can't - must tell you - I must! I must! Someone has to know; someone has to understand what she put me through -- !

All right. I'm calm now.

It became clear to me that I couldn't take much more. Already I could feel sanity slipping away. Either I had to make her stop, or I had to get revenge - and quit. Working at Moonglow was spoiled by her tyranny; and stopping her didn't seem likely, so I decided to get revenge and quit - the newspaper be damned. I couldn't be afraid of her if I couldn't see her evil eyes and carnivorous smile. I would work behind her back.

(Time is short and I must hurry with my telling. There is something I must do in a little while and I must tell you - someone has to know!)

A few days later, a lame but surefire practical joke came to me. If I couldn't think of anything big to burn Stormy with, I figured a series of little things might be effective. Every evening at pretty much the same time, Stormy took a short break for a glass of iced tea. She always put her glass in the same spot in the break room, hauled the trash outside, then came back in to drink her tea. People were constantly wandering in and out of there, so it would be easy for me to sneak in and switch her glass for one of my own - a dribble glass.

It worked - after a fashion. Things went as planned, except that Stormy didn't go running for the boss as I had hoped she would. She simply cursed and yelled for me to bring a mop and a towel, "and hurry, stupid!" She made me mop the floor, but she cleaned herself off as best she could. The tea didn't even leave a stain.

Next, I tried to make her look forgetful and dumb. From her cubbyhole in the break room, I stole her purse, and put it in the freezer. Again, I was only partially successful. She did tear the place apart looking for it, but apparently someone actually *had* left a purse in the freezer once, so another worker looked there not too long into the search.

I was getting desperate. Obviously, something more serious had to be done. Our boss, Mr. Pendleton, was quite particular about how the condiments, place settings, and the like should be arranged on a customer's table. Just go down to Moonglow if you don't believe me. Stormy and I had the chore of setting up for the next day - making sure the catsup bottles were clean and there was plenty of sugar and the table settings were correct. I did the non-smoking section and Stormy did the smoking section. The smoking section was a pain because you had to wash the day's accumulation of ashes out of the ashtrays. If Mr. Pendleton found *one speck* of ash in *any* ashtray, all of them had to be redone - all forty or so - by scrubbing them with a mascara wand and Comet, inside and out. If the table settings were half an inch off, you had to reset all of them. If you missed one single crumb, you had to use a blush brush to clean all the tables - and sweep the floor, too. You didn't get paid for doing the extra work, either.

My plan was simple: I'd do my section quickly and tell stormy I had to leave. I'd pretend to leave, but wait until Stormy had gone; then I'd climb back into the Moonglow through the ladies' room window, which I would have carefully left open. I'd trash Stormy's section. I wouldn't do anything that would be obvious to most people. At every table in the smoking section, I'd move everything over half an inch to the right; and in one or two ashtrays I'd leave a single, microscopic ash. I knew Mr. Pendleton personally checked every table before the care opened and that he was enough of a nitpicker to notice. Also, I knew that *nobody*, not even Stormy, could get away with not setting up correctly.

I had no trouble messing everything up. It was beautiful. Even *I* could scarcely tell anything was wrong, and I knew what to look for.

It would've worked, too; but Mr. Pendleton caught a nasty flu bug that left him praying to the porcelain god devoutly, and his wife had to do inspection instead. Mrs. Pendleton wasn't as particular as Mr. Pendleton. Just as long as the plastic roses didn't *look* plastic, she didn't care how the table looked. You could scrawl spray paint scriptures on the tables, and she wouldn't notice as long as you didn't paint the roses.

With every failed attempt, I felt myself slipping a little bit closer to insanity. Edging closer to the darkness lurking in the corner of my mind. Or was the darkness expanding? Expanding to take over all of my mind, not just the corner? It was like going blind: slowly being unable to see the things you once saw so clearly; images becoming fuzzy, no longer razor-sharp. That was what was happening to me. What once had no significance suddenly became the focus of my universe: sanity. I took it for granted for 17 years and, suddenly, I was losing it. You read that the insane don't know they're crazy, but it's a lie - a lie, I tell you! I knew; I know! But I fear I'm getting ahead of myself. There is more I must tell you.

I became paranoid, glancing over my shoulder at every noise, real or imagined. I saw Stormy everywhere - even in the mailbox. I was afraid to leave the house, though I forced myself to go to work - I couldn't quit until I got even! I thought of revenge constantly, but rejected every idea because it wasn't enough to make her pay - pay for my lost sanity, my life, my hopes. All was lost, except revenge. Only while I was plotting Stormy's downfall was I whole. I needed to see her humiliated; and, increasingly, in pain.

My thoughts became violent. I dreamed of Stormy. Stormy in cement overshoes on the edge of a pier, about to tumble into the pretty water. Stormy playing "Finders Keepers" with the fishies, the pretty fishies. Stormy walking along the railroad tracks and not hearing the train until it was too late. Sometimes in my dreams Stormy was in the café alone and accidents befell her. Stormy in the kitchen drying something and leaving a towel on the stove and going into the storeroom and locking the door behind her - the door that automatically locked, and wouldn't be opened from the inside. The towel catching fire and the flames spreading to the homey red-checked curtains, then the woodwork, and slowly consuming the whole building, with Stormy trapped in a locked, windowless room and no one around to help. There were other such dreams, but I don't want to remember more.

After these thoughts or dreams, whichever you want to call them, began, I quit working and locked myself in my room and tried to hide from myself under the covers, but it didn't work. I was still there and so was Stormy. I was never sure how she got in there, but she was quite rude and refused to leave, even after I reminded her that it wasn't good manners to come into somebody's room without asking. She didn't care. She mostly just started at me, but sometimes she'd speak. She said horrible, hurtful things and stared at me with those eyes, those eyes that ripped through any barrier I could put up and read every thought I'd ever had and *knew*. Knew every secret I'd ever had; knew things I'd forgotten, and reminded me. She reminded me of everything. Oh, God, the memories -- !

All right. I'm a little better now.

I don't know how long it lasted - how long I locked myself in. I have vague memories of pounding, of my mother's worried voice and of sirens. Of men's voices cajoling me to exit, and of my own screaming; animal sounds, no words. Then there was more pounding and the door opened and I felt so unsafe. Stormy was sitting in the corner and laughing as big hands grabbed me and cradled me against a strong chest. I remember my mother's worried face peering at me over the shoulder of the guy holding me. Then I remember nothing until I woke up, except I don't think I was asleep. I'm not sure where I am, but there was a spiral notebook and a pen by the bed. Everything's white except the notebook, which is blue - but you know that because it's this notebook. Whoever finds this, please take it to my mother, Roberta Thompson, 122 Garden Terrace, Pinesville, and tell her I loved her. I've discovered that the sheets on the white bed tear well, but are strong. Don't let Stormy know where I am.

The End

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