Bittersweet Revenge

Hey my fantastic Quibblonians!
So the idea for this story just popped randomly into my head. I'm not quite sure where it's headed yet, so bear with me, guys!
I really would appreciate if you could comment, it'd mean a lot to me.
At least rate honestly! I need constructive criticism, so feel free to pick faults within reason.
Thanks so much for taking the time to read this!
❤ Scarlett

Chapter 3

That's what got me through

It’s funny how the brain works. In times of utter hell, it will remember the tiniest, stupidest details. Like numberplates, or the stubble on the jaws of the man who killed your brother. Or maybe that moment when I looked at him, and knew his expression mirrored my own, despite his sunglasses. You know, small things. Like going through the motions as your body stays numb and unresponsive. Watching my ruined parents make funeral arrangements. Being asked to say the eulogy, agreeing for some insane reason. Getting ready on the day, brushing my hair, looking in the mirror but not seeing. Pulling stockings over my numb legs, pushing my feet into heels. And on the way out to the car, picking a single white daisy, because they were his favourite.
Saying the eulogy, that killed me. Not just because public speaking scares me, but because I had to talk to these people, who could never understand, and watch as they pretended they did. I wanted to scream at them, throw things, weep like a crazy person. My Mum knew this, and just before I got up, she said, “Do it for him, Beck. Do it for you little brother.”
And that’s what got me through

 
On my first day back at school, I swear the guidance counsellor's assistant was just waiting for me to step through those gates. Tucking a bejewelled hand under my arm, she guided me up the stairs, clucking like a demented hen and saying "such a loss," in what I suppose she considered to be a soothing tone. It took all my willpower not to slap her across the face. "Now, sweetpea, Ms Thom just wants to have a little chat with you. About, the….the incident." She beams at me, and I can't help but wonder if she's ever had to face anything more confronting than high schoolers not using their inside voices. I brush past her and sweep into Ms Thom's office, and before she can say anything, sit on one of the ridiculous multi-coloured beanbags that embellish the tiny room, grabbing a fistful of lollipops from the glass bowl. I unwrap one and pop it in my mouth. "So, can I help you?" I ask
Her plum coloured lips forms an O before she purses them.
"Rebecca. How nice to see you're back at school." She smiles at me, and I notice with annoyance that she is quite pretty and can't be much older than twenty five. Her outfit, however, is absurd. I mean, what person over the age of seven consciously chooses to wear black tights, a fluffy blue tutu, shiny purple Doc Martins and a cropped denim jacket over a black long sleeved shirt?
And her hair, I might add, is a pixie cut, dyed black. She wears too many bracelets to count and a silver nose stud, as well as multiple ear piercings.
Kill. Me. Now

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