Bloody Bunny Girl

" r a n t i p o l e "

                                    Sophie Evans

          rantipole

(n.) a wild reckless, sometimes quarrelsome young person

(adj.) a wild or unruly manner

(v.) to be wild or reckless

Ever since second grade I knew what death was.

In third grade, during Career Day I finally had the strength to tell my class what I wanted my dream job to be. Most kids in my class thought Career Day was boring. But I liked it. I mean, I guess it's boring to listen to a doctor rant on about how many years you have to take to be smart. Or it gets tiring to hear a firefighter brag about how fast they can get dressed. But that's not what Career Day is about. This day is the day where you have to think about the future. It's the day where you can be hopeful. So that day, on the 21st of November, 2015, I told my third grade class that I wanted to be a murderer, a super villain.

Ah yes. I knew what death was. I noticed what murder is. I understood after my grandpa passed away earlier that year, how all this can bring sadness (even though I wasn't as sad since I never met my mother's father before). I felt the mourning of the people. I remember how it felt as if it was raining in the church. And honestly, I like the rain. Maybe that's why I like the sadness that death brings.

Maybe I was possessed. Maybe I'm just sick. Because I knew from there on I wanted to do something bad. Villainous, evil, and sinister. I wanted to bring anger and sadness. I wanted to be a villain. Like the Joker. Or an alien. Or... or like a cat.

But my hopes faded as my class laughed at me after I stated my dire idea to become a villain. You see, in second grade, I would wear the Justice skirts that every little girl in the early 2000's would dream for. Or every day after school, I would make Rainbow Loom bracelets to show to all my friends. I acted like any typical little girl, so it was hard for anyone to believe that my statement was real. My teacher on the other hand took this very seriously and called my parents to have a conference about my 'joke'. After the conference, my parents tried explaining to me what a murderer really is, even though I already knew what it was. But I lied to my parents, assuring them that I really wanted to be a dentist, just to make them stop worrying.

Six grade was the year when I truly became unhappy. I was only eleven when I already felt insecure about everything about me and my surroundings. I hated every pretty kid in my class like the pretty cheerleaders or like my stunning agriculture teacher. I was desperate to have more friends, almost to the point where I was greedy for attention. Or how I wished my crush would like me back. And I was even allowed to have social media, which increased my self pity. And this depression led to anger. But by the end of sixth grade, I knew that I wasn't going to go anywhere if I just pity myself all the time. I would need to use this anger for good use, like murder. That's where I became more determined to become a supervillain.

Now in eighth grade, I still believe this anger and depression can be used for good use. At least, good use in my case. And currently I'm thinking about terrorizing Mr. Powell, my geometry teacher, who is giving too much homework for tonight.

Right now Mr. Powell is explaining about the function of slope. But I'm not listening. Times like this, where I zone out in class, are the most useful times. I plan out every move on how to injure my classmates. Or strategically think about how to kill everyone in a room at the same time. And as weird as this sounds, I know these thoughts are a perfect way on mastering the art of death.

"Sophie Evans?"

My dreams and thoughts disappeared as I look away from the window. Everyone in class is staring at me. And I could see Mr. Powell watching me from across the room, with a marker in his hand and a math problem on the board and a mean, stern face.

"Sophie, can you please show the class how to solve this problem?"