Her name was Gabriella Quintanilla. She was a senior in high school during this time. She had the looks, all the boys, the popularity, the clothes, and even the grades. And in no way was she ignorant of any of these things--quite the opposite. She knew that she was above average in most categories of life, and had no problem reminding people repeatedly of that fact.
I'm not going to lie---I didn't like her. Not at all. To be completely honest, I threatened to kill her with my bare hands. And the scary thing is, I meant it. I wanted her to die. I imagined dark fantasies of the light fading from her eyes right before my own, her pleading for me to spare her life. And in my fantasies, I wouldn't listen and I didn't care. She had tortured me for five years and I was utterly and simply sick of it all. Sick of her.
My animosity towards Gabriella was no secret among my peers. Not many people liked her, so it's not like I stood alone on the concept. However I was the only one who voiced a threat. THE threat. The threat that got me on a suspect list in some cop's notepad.
They want to know if I killed her. If they knew the whole story, would they blame me if I did?
©Copyright Timara M. Lewis 2013