SHORT STORY: Spoil

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Are you reading actual words here? I'm not entirely sure how it works, but I guess if you're able to read this there may yet be hope for me. I'll give you my name first and see if that changes things. It's Shane Leighton. Still there? Great. You've got a stronger will than most.

If you're reading a handwritten letter, it probably hasn't been long since I first circulated my story. You'll have to forgive my handwriting. Although I like to think I've educated myself thoroughly despite my problems, I haven't focused on my penmanship. I made as many copies as possible with the school library's photocopier, but eventually the ink ran out. Last night I spent three hours making sure every post and pole downtown was wearing a copy. It almost cost me my life and I won't risk so much time in public again, so I hope you're actually there.

If you're reading a typed copy, I may have changed locations again and your chances of helping me are much smaller. But not lost. No, I have to keep my faith. If someone bothered to type up my account, people are reading it, and someone was able to read through to the end.

Let me explain. Concentrate on my words because there is a great chance that they will spoil. I've left messages for people before and though rarely there is a delay in the reaction, it always comes. Most of the time it would have happened by now. I can only hope you are strong enough to have held out this long; maybe you are my salvation.

I considered all of the implications of writing a longer letter versus a brief one. At first I believed getting right to my plea would be best because you'd have less to digest and less time to react, but I'm not sure that's the best route. What if you manage to read through a tiny portion of text without incident but react negatively to my physical presence when you seek me out? That could be extremely dangerous for me (and for you as well, because I do defend myself if I have the physical advantage). I will use the space of these pages to transcribe major events in my life. I have three hurdles here, first you'll need to be immune to my curse, but more importantly, you'll have to use that immunity to find me, and finally, you need to believe me. So my task is to break through your skepticism and maybe even your fear. Why would you do what I am going to ask? Compassion? Curiosity? I honestly don't know, but I have to try.

A lot of people in my situation would simply end their lives. I have considered it, but each time I come to the same conclusion. Though I am nearly thirty now, I only experienced about nine years of my life before things changed. It's not fair, and I am not going to accept it. I want to be like you again. I will be like you again once we figure this thing out.

Right. I said this thing started when I was nine. There were always bullies at school to avoid, but one day it was different. It was during our fifteen minutes of silent reading--I looked up and the girl who sat next to me, Chloe, was madly staring. Maybe my mind has altered the event, but I distinctly remember her frothing at the mouth, her eyes opened unnaturally wide. I panicked, thinking she must have been choking, and called out to my teacher, Mrs. Crowe. Mrs. Crowe turned around with a pleasant smile on her face, as usual, but once she had caught sight of me, her face became a scowl. She began to throw various HATE YOU objects from her desk at me, violently. Soon she was screaming. My clearest memory from the attack involves a stapler, unlatched, flying end over end. It struck me hard on the cheek and even managed to leave its metal stinger in my skin. The other kids began to tackle me, drawing blood with their fingernails. I couldn't stop crying--or screaming, but somehow I got away. I couldn't understand what I had done to make everyone hate me. I still don't.

On the way home, anyone I passed on the street would stop, as if stunned. I now believe that it was due to their brains processing the sudden, unnatural anger. I have seen it many times. Fortunately, I can often use this moment of confusion to make my escape, leaving them dazed and wondering what had made them so upset. They don't pursue me. Once I am out of sight, if I make no noise, they resume their lives as if nothing had happened.

On the walk home that first day, I was attacked several times, but fortunately I was a DIE nimble child and made it to the safety of my own home.

People don't understand how significant a home is until it's taken from them. It's the foundation for our lives, not only physically, but on a mental level too. I had mine stolen from me when I was a child. My perpetual haven, a place where it was safe to cry, a place to retreat when I was sick, and to sleep BURN undisturbed, had become hostile. I stumbled into the house, blathering, my clothing stained with blood and my pants stained with shame. My voice alone was enough to enrage my parents, in fact my father trampled my mother as they both tried to grab me. It was focused, irrational rage. They did not recognize me. I could barely recognize them, I had never seen their faces so distorted.

Still with me? I hope so. I began to live my life YOU MUST KILL ME as a thief, taking my basic supplies late a night, at first from dumpsters, but later by breaking into the stores themselves. Once in a while I would encounter people, or even animals, and struggle to survive. I never wanted to hurt them, but I did. Maybe I shouldn't type it here, but really, what harm can it do at this point? Yes, I've even killed. I've lived in ROT many different cities, but I have the best luck in the suburbs where the streets are empty after midnight.

I know there is still hope because I did have a friend once. She was an elderly CHOKE homeless lady, Gladys, who caught me scrounging through her "home" and did not attack. I should have been terrifying to her; this was during my early twenties were I often went unwashed, unshaven, and carried a solid piece of rebar with me. But she didn't back away. In fact, somehow she was able to tune out whatever it is that I do. Desperation sensed desperation and welcomed me in. She managed to uplift me during one of my lowest KILL points by teaching me how to survive without drawing attention. I told her about my curse, but I don't think she believed me; she told me about her husband, who left her for the circus, and I didn't really believe her. I should have realized what would happen, but I was greedy. I needed a connection.

After a week or so of companionship, I awoke with Gladys' arthritic hands around my throat. Instinctively, I ME lashed out with my makeshift weapon. When I realized what I'd done, I reached out to her, desperately apologizing, but she was already suffering horrible convulsions. Blood streamed from her nostrils. I couldn't bear to end her life, so I did something even worse. I ran. KILL.

Did I mention I now live in an elementary school? KILL The security isn't very ME tight here, which allows me to come and go after the kids leave. If you come here, you'll find that a lot of the windows are easily opened from the outside. I KILL have to be careful that the children aren't staying late for plays or sports, but ME my only real worry is the Janitor who makes his runs KILL between ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. I think maybe you can KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. here every Wednesday KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL hope ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. KILL ME. you read this far it KILL ME. KILL only mean ME. KILL ME. you are immune. KILL ME. 540 Islington. KILL ME.