A/N: To make up for how long you've waited for Arrogant Ice, I decided to write this one-shot!
He's given her the last dose of damage. He's pulled the last straw. She won't take anymore; and that satisfies him.
Riven watches his primary target coil away from him as soon as he arrives within sight. Even when he isn't focusing on her, she will gasp and turn away in fear. This earns a smirk out of him.
His desire is to make Roxy feel like a minor, to make her hate herself. This goal has been fulfilled long ago. But he needs more. He wants more. He wants more than fear, he wants more than self-hatred. He wants suicidal thoughts, suicidal attempts.
His friends ask him what she has done to make him loathe her. His answer is always the same, "Nothing in particular," and he starts to wonder if they verily believe him or not. But he doesn't care. It's his gratification, being superior. It really is. It's his purpose in life. And he loves it.
One Tuesday, he waits outside the gates with his friends: Sky, Brandon, Helia, Timmy and Nabu, though most of them are engaged in their own conversation. He sets his hands in his pockets as he absent-mindedly chews gum. Every once in a while, he blows his magenta hair out of his eyes. She is taking ages, causing a frown to start forming on his face yet when he remembers the most likely reason that she's taking forever, a smug smile creeps over the frown. He'll wait as long it takes to get his inner satisfaction.
Finally, he notices her plodding out of the school doors and he catches a glimpse of his chance.
"Hey, Bird Brain!" he calls as he walks over to her, his bag slung insouciantly over his right shoulder.
She glances up and immediately he can detect the fear burning in her eyes.
"Go away, Riven," she tries to sound fierce but her voice wobbles, "Please?"
With a snigger, as he walks past, he presses as close as he can to her and shoves her with his shoulder.
"Hey!" She screeches.
"What? Can't take a teeny weeny shove?" Riven has a mocking tone of sarcasm in his voice. As he says teeny weeny, he holds his thumb and first finger an inch apart, "Nobody would have ever thought you were in year nine. You look like a year seven kid," he snickers, scornfully.
"Stop! Just stop!" Her hands fly to cup her ears.
With one final plunge – that causes her to topple over onto the ground – then walks away with his head held high and a sneer on his face.
The next day, Riven reaches school early. He waits for Roxy outside the gates. When she doesn't show up, he huffs and then slowly skulks inside. He waits at her form room door; she still doesn't show up. He waits by her classrooms. No appearance is made by her.
Riven counts the days. Then a week. By Friday, he starts to get very impatient. He has had to pick on other people, and they take it better than Roxy does. They backchat, they fight back and no matter what he does, he just cannot show them that he is better than them. This is not how it is supposed to be. They're meant to be frightened of him, not show him that they are on his level.
On Monday, he sees a page from the weekly school chronicle on a rusty newspaper billboard as he proceeds to walk home. The headline reads:
YEAR NINE GIRL COMMITS SUICIDE AFTER BEING HORRIBLY BULLIED
It catches his attention. Or rather, the picture of the girl does. It is Roxy. The school picture of her smiling brightly a couple of years back. His mouth falls open as he reads the article. She had hung herself from her window with a bedroom sheet. His name is featured in the article. Angry quotes from her friends are featured in the article. Bewildered quotes from his friends are indeed featured in the article.
"No…" he whispers. He had wanted suicidal attempts from her. He wanted this. Right?
No, he thinks as he rereads the article, making sure he read it correctly. He feels terrible. He didn't want this; he didn't want it at all.
Riven now is the one who feels small. Knowing that someone committed suicide because of him is slowly wearing him down. It's the same as murder. He wants to go back and undo everything; every word he said, every shove he made.
Voices whisper in the night. Sometimes, he thinks they say, "Murder." Sometimes he sees Roxy in his restless sleep, neck twisted and a smile glued on her face like a grimace. "Can't take a teeny weeny shove?" she sniggers and turns away.
Sometimes Riven wakes in a cold sweat, and his sheets, twisted in his damp hands, look a lot like a noose.