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Today I am going to kill something.
Like a child after climbing a high tree, A looked down at the world through her window. It was so small, from this height, this type of angle. She could hold out her hand and watch as four whole generations climbed into it, baby birds following along after the hand that fed, only to be crushed. Blood dripped between her fingers.
Anything, she wrote. Her handwriting - wobbling and scratchy - not smooth or precise, like B's. Wise words, from Duffy. She'd read Standing Female Nude at age 10. Good collection of poems, she'd thought. A still had a copy of it on her bookshelf. She didn't need it to write this out, though, she'd memorised this one. Red dripped onto the page, though she tried to keep the stains away from the words.
Words held power, after all. I have had enough of being ignored and today I am going to play God.
The staff here didn't understand much of anything, she'd always known it. An example of that; the meaning behind that poem. A had known what it was about the moment she'd read it - a genius. Not just any genius, a neglected one, too young for adulthood and too adult to be a child. And, of course, the staff had completely misinterpreted it.
A disturbed teen, they'd said, psychotic. As if. People just didn't understand the minds of geniuses. Her parents hadn't, those bastards back in Rampton hadn't, and as much as they liked to think they did, Wammy's just didn't understand the minds of geniuses. It was why they kept failing to make L again, after all. If they'd put A in charge of remaking L, maybe they'd have succeeded by now.
She'd fought with B yesterday. It had been over something silly (she couldn't quite remember now) but he'd been wrong, and refused to realise it. Their argument had evolved from a spat into some sort of screaming content. That new little albino kid had covered his ears in the corner, strings tied around his wrists, whimpering. Pathetic. He'd only shown up a few days ago, but he was already showing that strange sensitivity all children seemed to have.
A was glad she'd never been a child. What a sad thing to be.
Anyway, B. He'd been saying something ridiculous to her, something about death. Death, death, death, it was always death with that boy. Death and names. What kind of name was Beyond Birthday, anyway? He'd been telling her that she didn't have enough time to be so blasé about everything. She'd told him to stop being such a fucking schizo.
Funnily enough, he hadn't taken that well. The bruise on her chin was enough to prove that. Whatever, he'd get over it if he wasn't such a pansy. Poor little B with his manga and his bug eyes, following her around like he really couldn't help it. So close, but always so far behind.
Everyone was always so far behind A. Except for L, who floated so far above she often wondered how his feet touched the ground at all. If L died tomorrow, would they even notice? They'd hoist her up to Godhood, like they'd done to him before her. They'd turn to all those weepers standing about his grave and say - “Why do you look for the living among the dead? He is not here; he has risen!” and A would be L.
A would be L. A would be-
She doubled over, retching. But nothing came out, she couldn't remember eating today. Had she? No. Gods didn't need to eat, it was fine. She had bigger plans for today, didn't she? It was taking too long. She didn't have enough time, tick tock went the clock.
It bore into her every moment of every day. She didn't have enough time. A was scrambling to do something, be someone. Become the God she'd always been meant to be. Her ascension was not coming quick enough for her liking. Why won't you just die, L?
She wanted them all to die. Drop a bucket of bricks out of a window onto Wammy and Roger when they were taking their walks together; bust the carbon monoxide detector in the playroom, watch the life leave all those tiny bodies, the spasms in their arms and legs as they all fell away. A would climb their corpses higher and higher, to meet B on his level, then she'd put her hands around his too-thin neck and squeeze until there was nothing left to squeeze. She'd climb over him, too.
Then she'd meet L. Did his feet touch the ground? A wondered, as she jerkily climbed onto the chair, if L was somewhat like a fairy in that regard. She and Beyond had shared books of Fairy Tales as children. A purple, hardbacked thing with gold binding. Hans Christian Andersen, as she remembered. Stories of little poor girls who froze in the winter, lighting matches to stay alive until there were none left. And she died.
Her last match. Yes, that was a good thing, wasn't it? That little girl had been pulled up to heaven by the hands of her grandmother. How funny that was. What a silly little story. Beyond had said it was sad, but also hopeful. How can something be sad and hopeful? She'd responded, pulling on his little-girl braids. It's either sad or it's not.
He'd snatched the book away. You just don't get it.
Her hand was still bleeding. A had stabbed it with her fountain pen one too many time. Whatever, the red had made great ink. Contrasted the white of the pages, of her bedsheets, of her entire room, perfectly. Someone had hidden all the knives. She knew it was B, but he wouldn't admit it. He never did.
Backstabbing whore. She'd seen him flirting with one of the boys who came for church a few weeks back, smiling like he had no brain inside of his skull. A had pushed him down the stairs, but he'd clung to the railings. Roger'd had to have security pull them apart. She'd screamed bloody murder at him, calling him every name under the sun. A had even cursed at him in his own language, an act of love.
He'd deserved it, of course. She hated him. Hated him, hated him, hated everyone…
A breathed deeply. Her hands were wet, blood and sweat mingling. She was glad she hadn't eaten, puking all over the white floors of her bedroom would have ruined the colours intermingling. Colour theory, she laughed to herself, red is a happy colour!
Happy thoughts, was what the doctors suggested to the staff. She just needs to try harder to have happy thoughts. Get rid of all the things that remind her of sad things.
Hence, her entire bedroom had been emptied out. No more textbooks, no more stuffed animals, no more poetry collections, no more fairy tales. Just A and her white abyss. They hadn't bothered to paint her room or B's. A whitewashed bedroom for L's little duplicates. Couldn't have them developing their own interests - couldn't have her being reminded of sad things.
Last week, she'd smuggled a blue skipping rope out from the children's playground under her white jumper. Blue is a sad colour. Her red fingers wrapped around it now, dangling from her switched-off ceiling fan, she smiled wide.
Once L died, they'd hoist her up to Godhood, like they'd done to him before her. They'd turn to all those weepers standing about his grave - but there would be weepers. Oh, there would be. Beyond would pry open that casket with his own fingers until they bled like hers now, to catch a glimpse at the face of a dead God. The smaller children would wail, clutching at each other or their toy robots.
Nobody would cry for you. The thought came, and she saw it was good. Good, good, nobody would weep for A. She hated it when they cried, it made her snarl and bite. She wasn't a maiden in need of defending. The monsters were everywhere, who bothered believing they could kill them all? Only Gods could do that.
She’d made Beyond hate her enough by now, surely. She'd ruined his pretty face, for one. He'd ruined hers, too. Fair was fair, but there was no time for him to forgive her like he always did. The chair creaked beneath her weight, and she found herself on tiptoe. Like a fairy, about to take flight into the endless blue skies.
A swung, and her feet did not touch the ground.