Definitely
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a B.O.Y
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Never did he think could a woman equal his mother in vileness, or his hate for her. There was nothing worse than being abandoned, especially by someone who was supposed to nurture you. Support you. Be a role model to you. Be the last person to stop loving you.
That's what he used to think.
How on earth could he hate a stranger more than one he'd known most of his life? How is it that the scars that run deep left his heart whole and unharmed, but she broke it into a million pieces? How is it that nothing he kept close to almost didn't matter to him, but he couldn't let a day pass without obsessing over her? Why did he feel incomplete when ones close to him were gone, yet utterly ruined that he lost her?
His mother had been wrong. Everyone in the school had been wrong.
There was no such a soul that was completely Good or Evil. There is no Good soul. At least, none in the sense they thought. There wasn't an Evil soul, either.
Though there is a human soul.
Devils were humans too.
Once.
He always looked into her eyes, searching. Whatever he wanted found there seemed elusive: For as deep as those green eyes could've been…they were empty.
She didn't even know what she did to him! To his mind, to his heart. How he's practically on the brink of losing his sanity chasing after her demise, and no words could be said to express how desperately he wanted to end this, to yearn for the satisfaction of her slain, to stop plaguing him with dark demented dreams of death, for he knew he'd want no other perish in the way he resolved her dead, her blood in his hands, flesh paling, a last whisper—would he, then, be contented with that? Could he finally breathe easily without shuddering out of drastic fear of nightly visions? Would no desire of death haunt him even as he slumbered? Will this be an achievement or another regret?
He hates her giggle. He hates how she bites her pen when she's nervous. He hates how she turns red each time she laughs. He hates the color green because it reminded him too much of her eyes. He hates lavender, doubly now, for he'd inherited those same cruel eyes, and she smelled like it. He hates women. He hates her.
In time this hatred will consume him, and that'll be the end of it. Let it. But not before he's finished with a goal set in mind.
He was falling, falling…It's so pitch black and he can't see anything and it's so deep. Fragments of something shattered dissolves into dust, which then burns into ashes the lower down he fell, into the blank darkness that eats him into oblivion—such was the destiny of many else. But to be filled with so much hatred…
Everything is gone, a color of black he knew meant emptiness; that beyond where he drifted there is nothing, betwixt and between, in the place of everything he thought was vibrant and so alive…nothing.
He's choking for breath, a hideous shudder racking his body, making him quake and shiver and cower; humiliation is nothing in this realm where he's going to die so he begs at the distance to please, please, please, please let him live, spare him, he didn't care anymore, that he didn't do anything to deserve this yet, it was too early, he wouldn't let them kill him, because he was innocent for now: Give him some time to accomplish the task he's worked hard for, and he'd gladly submit himself to the shackles of eternal banishment.
Then it stopped. He was in the arms of someone, as a baby, harmless and unknowing. How he knew it he doesn't know. He didn't want to look up, for it can only be one person.
A hand caresses his face, and he flinches, reaching away from there.
There was something at the corner of his eye.
And he saw it: A figure up ahead, blurred at the edges, an indistinguishable blob truly vague in nature he thought it is a sliver of his memory. It's approaching them, mother and child. The details grew sharper the nearer it drew, movements turning out to be familiarly feminine, face almost so close he can define its properties, curves appearing out of becoming shapes, hair that bounced in the windless tunnel. He can't tell who it is, for her face is obscured, by what, he doesn't know, only that he didn't recognize her, not yet: It's like the faculty of her face is stretched or expanded and he can't focus on where the center is, like he is disoriented and he can't tell her face from a human being, only that he knew it is human and yes, he did know her.
And in an instant, he recognized her.
At the same time, Sophie lifted her head, and smiled. Suddenly her face was disfigured, it lasts a moment—
He felt fear grip his heart—a hideous witch—
…A beautiful young girl.
Now the only thing that was left of the witch was the Evil smile.
"I'll take it from here, Lady Lesso."
He wakes up. Like he always does from his nemesis nightmares.
Only it wasn't about his mother anymore.
A nemesis is someone in the way of your happiness.
Why was she haunting his dreams?
He was caught in a lie. He had nothing to hide. He had nowhere to run. He had nothing inside.
There she is again. He swallows all his revulsion, turning away. It's perfectly natural for her to flaunt her beauty like this. It isn't like he gives a damn, is it? She's a little ray of sunshine for everyone. That's a lie, lie, lie, lie.
As he turns a corner, he punches a wall so hard it cracked.
Her small slender body. He'd rather see it limp and frail.
Her skin, healthy, glowing, creamy and milky. He'd like to peel it off her.
Her moist tongue licking her lips. Nothing will taste sweeter in his mouth than the satisfaction of cutting hers off.
Her sweet voice. It sounds so better screaming.
Her liquid honey hair. Cut it off and stuff it down her throat.
Her eyes…Tantalizing, bottomless, temptress's eyes. An abyss of innocence, drenching you in light, a rim of shadows the borders of a striking sunset of golden hues. A forest in a sea of sunshine. Clear mirrors that reflect the demons inside…obsidian nothingness, inexorable darkness. Cruelty in the form of sweet jade dewdrops, leeching life that it lusts, poison in a pair of eyes, arrows in round chests of treasure, troves of emerald jewels. Eyes that reveal purity, but what kind, you could only choose goodness, for evil was never this beautiful. A nightmare within in a dream. A wolf acting a stray. A villain disguised as a princess.
He massages his forehead, totally stressed out.
But if he were to get rid of her
At what cost?
Confusion.
That's what he feels.
Obsession.
He'd love to know how to get rid of it.
Hate.
Lately, he doesn't know anymore.
He was a miserable lump in his bed, enraged at his mother, this school, the boys, her and—and himself.
Inside him, he knew it wasn't a Nemesis Dream.
His eyes move toward his shaking hands, and he crumpled into a heap in the sheets, cursing.
Sophie was Definitely Evil.
AUTHOR'S NOTE (including STORY INFO) IN MY PROFILE