Disclaimer: I don't own Cruel Intentions, but I love it so much that you'd think I did.
Notes: This is my take on what happens after the movie in Kathryn's point of view. So she's a bitch, I don't care. She's still my favorite character. Besides, ever notice how movies always make the brunette the evil one? Not that blondes should be evil, but you get the point.
By the way, I'm just putting this on the web so people can review and tell me if I should continue. I'm not done with this chapter, I'm just having a temporary brain fart, which will pass. I'll finish soon, but please, read and review anyway. I want your opinions. Thanks!
Chapter One: Guilty
I don't usually cry. I'm indifferent on whether or not I find it a weakness, or a profit for pity. It might as well be both.
When he died, I was neither shocked nor grief ridden, because he was only a game; a pursuance. A pity he had to leave poor, no longer pure Annette behind. Rancid country girls never die. And I catch myself smiling as I think of her, crushed into the pavement, the inane taxi making a run, not even stopping to clean up the blood. For that is what she did to me, and made me cry. And all the more I blubbered like a mindless idiot, thoughtless in my composure when I could have come up with some kind of excuse, a blasphemous lie to protect my true intentions. I let them destroy my crucifix, the tool of my sanity and the redemption I search in God. I am a romanticist, faithful in my belief for personal satisfaction and finding myself within the Lord and nature. What bullshit.
My face becomes unmoving. I really am a bitch.
I didn't stop crying for the rest of the day. The insolent puritan took my fame and tied it up in a package for all to see and gaze upon. She opened my mind with Valmont's journal and perceived my falseness and what little virtues I possess. I was built to achieve and win, not to be singed down into ash, wallowing in my wrongs. The god-forsaken tears kept falling. And I just stood and stared into adamant nothingness, disbelief radiating off of me, disgust blaring in my ears. I heard whispers and loud laughter, muffled and contemptuous. There are too many voices among the students. Cecile let out a bidden and designed snort.
Hours later, I barely feel myself step down from the stair I've been moronically stagnant on all morning. Like a lost fool, I wandered outside the gates, heedless of the faces peering out of the classroom windows. I was drawn to the street.