If you’ve been to writing classes, then you’d understand that it’s hard to write about things you don’t know. But sometimes, it’s harder to write about things you know too well.
It’s hard for me to write about Alyssa. How do you write about a past friend that you’ve known for your entire life? Where do you start? There are so many things to talk about, important and unimportant. Well, I could only start by saying that she was a lot like me — too much like me.
People used to consider us best friends forever. We were born in the same hospital, we lived on the same street, we grew up in the same neighborhood, we went to the same school, we wore similar clothes in similar styles, we did similar activities and shared similar hobbies. At times, when I gazed into her large, unblinking eyes, it felt as if I could see through her skull, knowing exactly what was happening in her mind. It must’ve been the same for her.
But there’s a reason why I called her a ‘past friend.’ You see, Alyssa died three months ago. She burned alive in a fire, and I was there to witness.
I know too well how she died — not by fire, of course; that was only the weapon which dealt the killing blow. No, Alyssa died for different reasons. I know the cause: her uncontrolled hatred and jealousy towards me.
Let’s start by saying we were both into writing. It’s what I do best, ‘cashing out’ on my active imagination. Like me, she was also lost in her head. I saw it in the way she strolled in the hallway, music blasting into her ears, eyes determined, back arched, head lowered, feet stomping on the floor. After I began gaining recognition in school for my writing, she decided to pursue the same path. What started as jotting down small poems quickly evolved into scripting long novellas, overstuffed with side characters and complicated plot structures. She went through years of my writing phases within months, the similarities between our tastes almost shocked me. In June she was into fantasies, in August she was into anti-war, in October she was into horror — all of which were amateur and somewhat poorly-executed.
I knew her too well not to recognize her ambitions; I saw competitiveness in her when I read her works. Unfortunately, she never received my level of recognition school-wide. People laughed and scorned at her naïve stories while they praised mine, granting me awards and introducing me to larger competitions.
Of course, being her best friend, I tried to help her. I beta-read her stories and offered her resources, but to no avail. With her unyielding pride, she was set on improving on her own. We eventually reached a healthy relationship competing against each other — in contests, in literature challenges, in classes — anywhere that allowed writing. I became more than her friend; I was her imaginary opponent. By imitating my style and borrowing my ideas, she attempted to surpass me.
I tolerated her because, despite her improvisation on my concepts, her flawed execution killed off any potential those stories had. I told myself that she was just success starved. Once she began receiving attention, she would move on, and our relationship would return to what it was before.
Our rivalry eventually came down to one nationwide contest, one that she swore she was to champion over me. I applauded her confidence but quickly dismissed it as another of her childish endeavors. Three days later, she proved me wrong as she gleefully described her work to me: a child attacked by a monster, only to discover years later that it was her father sexually assaulting her.
The idea was brilliant—far superior to my mundane piece. For the first time, her work filled me with anticipation that she was going to win, despite her jarring pacing and childish descriptions. I could see the same hope in her eyes.
She couldn’t sleep for weeks, giggling manically as she glanced in my direction every few seconds — agitated and over-excited to a point she couldn’t even contain herself in class. She pounded the table as she bragged about her life after winning national first place. She knew she was going to beat me. Finally, she would get the attention and the praises she desperately needed, and it was painful for her to wait.
It was even more painful when, two weeks later, she checked the results. Jamming open her laptop in the empty classroom, her unrestrained joy rapidly drained into disbelief as she began wiping her screen frantically, reloading the website, logging in and out to make sure she wasn’t just seeing things. She had made no mistake; she won nothing. No first place, no second place, not even honorable mention. Just a “Thank you” and a “We regret to inform you that your work has not been selected.” It meant that she didn’t even make it past the first round; someone else’s work crushed hers — mine. I won state’s second place. But I wasn’t supposed to win! The shock in her eyes must have mirrored my own.
She knew that I had taken away her spotlight again when our eyes met. Her posture froze, her nails digging into the table, blood was rushing to her face as her body fumed. Her teeth clenched, snorting through her flaring nostrils. Her bloodshot eyes glared at mine, tears circulating in her sockets.
“You. You took away my prize.” Words squeezed through the creak between her teeth. “Why is it always you? Why couldn’t you let me win, for once?”
I didn’t know what to say, it wasn’t my intention to win. I sat gawking as her stare riveted me to my chair for what felt like an eternity. Her look slowly transitioned from that of a friend, to an enemy. But at last, she let out a wail, shrieking as she bolted out of the room, her footsteps echoing and dissipating through the hallway, leaving me bunched dumbfounded in my seat.
Thinking back, I had hoped that things would go back to the way they were, hoping that our friendship would recover. Only hoping because I knew it wouldn’t; I knew Alyssa too well, she would never let things go that easily, instead devising plans to punish me.
The following day, I managed to find her sitting alone in the dining hall. There was hope in my heart: hope to cheer her up, maybe even persuade her to take up some other hobbies that she would find better luck in. But before I could sit down, she lifted her gaze. In the instance when our eyes met, I caught what her plan was.
She planned for me to be dead.
I knew her too well to misinterpret that look. She had the same look when her parents scolded her, when she squished bugs found on her table, when she stomped on injured squirrels in her backyard. It burnt with such disdain it frightened me. Suddenly she looked like a stranger, a snake dripping with venom, ready to strike. I was paralyzed by the ferocity. Without a word, she turned her gaze back down to the table, chuckling to herself.
Her look filled my heart with so much dread, I remember rushing out of the dining hall, not knowing where to go. My feet were moving mechanically on their own, my mind completely blank from the shock. When I finally recovered, I found myself staring into a rice-white door before me, my calves completely numb from being sitting on the toilet seat for the better part of an hour.
It only took a day for me to notice Alyssa trailing me home. When I caught her in my peripheral vision, she ran up to me with the same murderous glint in her eyes. Her hands grabbing tightly onto my arm, squeezing and laughing as she shared ideas for her future stories. Every time I pried her off, she would pinch me again with her sharp nails, whispering in my ears to behave.
Stuck together by the glue of her will, we passed dozens of smiling neighbors sitting on their front porch, waving at us. She waved back, holding an ear-to-ear grin.
“Mr. Roberts! Ms. Murphy! Help! Please! She’s stalking me! She’s gonna hurt me!” I yelled at some of those familiar faces for help. Confused, their hands halted in the air, their expressions stiffened, staring at us awkwardly.
“Nah, she’s just messing with you!” In a jolly manner, she laughed it off.
Relieved, they turned away. Afterall, we were best friends, friends that joke and fight with each other. How nonsensical it would be for them to intervene; it was only appropriate to leave us alone. My heart dropping, I watched as smiles returned to their faces, bodies shaking as they cackled. Alyssa dragged me off; what was once a fifteen-minute walk now felt like it was never going to end.
When we finally reached my house, she let me loose. I rushed to my front porch as she observed me on my lawn, giggling as I fumbled to open the door. Locking her outside, I looked out the window. For the better part of five minutes, her silhouette stood motionless behind the closed curtains. Then, when I finally decided to call for authorities, she skipped away, sandals clicking on the concrete sidewalk.
I could sense that this was only her foreshadowing things, giving subtle hints of what would come later. She didn’t want me to die unaware; no, she wanted me to feel absolute fright, anxiously anticipating her appearance when passing through a dirty alley at night or expecting to spot her hiding behind my locker when I’m alone. She wanted me agitated, so that when she kills me at the end, it would be satisfying.
It didn’t come as a surprise when accidents began happening to me. My sport equipment malfunctioned on me, the weights falling off my barbell as I lifted, almost crushing my neck as the rod slid down. Debris falling from the roof exploded near my feet as I walked from building to building. Still, no matter how I explained to the school, they wouldn’t believe me, blaming it on bad luck. It didn’t help that Alyssa also played the victim card, claiming that what happened to me had happened to her as well. I couldn’t blame the school though; who would? We were best friends forever, friends who would never betray each other, friends who would kill for each other — friends like no others on earth.
Three days later, on a late Saturday afternoon, as I walked through the front door, I found Alyssa sitting on the sofa waiting for me, her feet set on the coffee table as she wrapped her hands behind the back of her head. The hair on the back of my neck stood the moment our eyes met.
“Nicole! You’re back!” My mom strolled out the kitchen, “Alyssa wanted to see you, so I kept her for dinner. Such a nice girl she is, she even helped prepare the food! Now come set the table and we could start eating.”
“Yeah sure!” No, of course not. Stalling, I proceeded to slowly wipe my hands a dozen times with sanitizers, then excusing myself to put dirty clothes in the laundry — anything to postpone dining with her.
“Can’t you do the laundry later?” Alyssa whined as I walked to the basement. “We haven’t had the chance to eat together in ages! Please, for the sake of our friendship?”
“Nicole! You heard her. Come and sit down now. It’s impolite to keep guests waiting.”
“But I —”
“Sit down or else…” Last time my mom said something like this, I chose not to listen, resulting in a heavy beating and me wearing long sleeves for three weeks in July, covering up the scars. Reluctantly, I obeyed.
Alyssa’s eyes shimmered as I lowered myself onto the chair, handing me a dish of pork and mashed potatoes.
“Just for you,” she said.
Before I could respond, a cold piece of metal pressed against my right thigh, its sharp tip poking at the soft meat. Sitting next to me, Alyssa displayed a hearty grin.
“I-I’m really not feeling well today! Anatomy class made me lose my appetite. Please Mom, may I excuse myself?” The knife pressed harder, sinking into meat but not enough to draw blood, a dull pain radiated through my muscle.
“Again, it’s impolite to not even try the food we made you. I can’t believe I still need to tell you this; what happened to your manners?” my mom frowned.
“No, no, I understand. I get her.” Alyssa interjected. “She just doesn’t want to become fat like me. She’s a teenager; don’t push her.”
“What? No! You’re not fat! Look at that pretty face. Awww…Nicole, eat! Now.”
Begrudgingly, I carefully picked up the thinnest slice of pork and brought it to my mouth, chewing dramatically and faking a swallow while hiding the chunk of food under my tongue. Its needle-like sourness pricking its underside.
“Mmm it’s so good! Mmmm…Just a little dry. I might need a chug of water. I’ll be right back.”
Rising abruptly from my chair, I forcefully slowed down my footsteps as I hastened to the kitchen. Swinging the fridge door open to block their view, I then bent down to spit out the pork, kicking it under the cabinet.
The idea of returning to the table sickened me, it was going to be exhausting coming up with excuses. Yet, I knew disobeying my mother would only get me into a much worse situation. Lacking a better option, I took a deep breath and steeled myself.
However, as I straightened, my back unexpectedly bumped into someone standing behind me. Before I could react, a hand grabbed me by the head and pushed me back down. The force nearly tripped me over, my hands instantly gripped onto the counter to support my weight. I recognized that hand: the soft texture of the palm, the little sharp nails burying in my hair — I knew them all too well.
“Nicole, are you okay? I’m worried.” Alyssa’s hand caressed my scalp, nails digging into my skin. Her other hand pressed the knife to my throat, the blade sticking so close I dared not breathe. Blocked by the fridge door, I couldn’t see the dining room, meaning my mom also couldn’t see us.
“Say you’re fine. Tell her you need a minute.” She whispered into my ears.
“I’m-I’m fine. I just need some more water,” the blade stung as words vibrated.
“Yeah, she choked, that’s all! I’ll stay with her, Mrs. Turner. You don’t have to worry about a thing!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah totally! Ask Nicole if you don’t believe me.” The edge of the knife drew a thin cut on my throat, pain projecting down my spine.
“I’m fine! Leave us be Mom!” I shouted shakily, desperately hoping that she’d come check on me.
“Alright then, you girls take care of yourselves. I’ll go watch TV; call me if you need anything!” My heart sank as footsteps began moving away from the table, the noise of evening shows blasted across the far side of the living room.
“Now, was there something wrong with the food?” Alyssa’s voice was laced with honey.
“No.”
“Then why’d you spit it out?”
I couldn’t answer the question. She chuckled.
“I get it, really, I do. Sweet Nicole couldn’t stand to lose the writing contest, and now she doesn’t want to lose the fitness contest either!”
“No, that’s not —” She suddenly pinned me down, only halting at the last second, almost slicing my neck in half. My knees crashed on the tiled floor, numbness shooting down my legs.
“Now, I think it’s only fair if we both get to win, right?”
A sense of distress crept through my body as I watched her replace the knife with my plate of mashed potatoes, glowing sickly yellow under the fridge lights. Without warning, she smashed my face into the dish, grinding the paste. Sharp pain immediately shot out from my nose, blood spurting as the slime invaded my nostrils. I attempted to back away, hands pushing the countertop hard, yet she held me in place. A dreadful sense of suffocation quickly consumed me as the gluey mix of blood and food refused to let air pass through.
“Mom —” My gulp sounded close to a whimper, instantly drowned in the noises of soap operas and evening news.
I panicked as the paste clung to the walls of my nostril and began climbing down to fill my airways. Flowing down, the mash entered the passage under my nose and fell onto my tongue. My mouth gasped futilely against the thick sludge; the slime consuming my face, drowning me in the process.
“Shit, are you okay? Here, let’s have some water.”
She yanked my head backwards, hand protruding into my mouth to smother my scream. Biting down hard, I drew a long, infuriated hiss from her. In retaliation, she hit me with a water jar before prying my jaws open. Gallons of water instantly poured into my throat, gushing out as my pipes clenched; my lungs burned as if being torched, a thousand ants biting my flesh. Frantically trying to breathe, I flailed my arms helplessly, trying to escape. Everything around me muted, the intense commotion muffled as my vision began to darken. A long burp formed in my stomach, rushing into my throat but unable to get out, blocked by the incoming fluid. It expanded itself in my chest, overwhelming me with a dizzy feeling in my head.
When my senses started to fade away the jar finally emptied, blood fused with gooey water running in a stream out of my nose as I sat on the ground, dazed. Gently placing her hand on my back, Alyssa patted my back to help choke out the remaining liquid in my lungs.
“Alyssa —” I struggled to make a sound, my voice merely a mumble.
“Shhhhh, hush now. You just puked, so don’t talk; it’d ruin your vocal cords. Here, let’s clean up before Mom finds out.”
Placing the knife in the kitchen sink, I watched her as she mopped the floor and rinsed the dishes — too exhausted to move, to think. Then, like a tender sister, she wiped my face clean with a dishcloth, stopping the nosebleed with crumpled tissues, then throwing them away into the trash.
“Mrs. Turner!” She yelled. “Nicole looks really sick! She just threw up. I tried giving her water but it’s not helping. Could you come take a look?”
The thunderous TV finally muted, filling my ears with intense ringing. When my mom leisurely paced into the kitchen, Alyssa was wearing a tight frown, her brows knotting together and her fingers fidgeting.
“Sorry, I tried my best. I don’t know what’s going on with her. Maybe we should take her to the hospital.” Before I could open my mouth, her hand squeezed my shoulder with force.
“Aww, it’s alright, sweetheart. You’ve done more than enough. I should’ve come sooner. We’ll get Nicole some rest; you hurry home now. It’s quite late, your parents must be worried.”
The moment Alyssa left, I stumbled to my mother, staggering in gibberish as I attempted to tell her everything. She ignored my claims, stating that I had watched too many horror movies and was just covering up my act of wasting food. I knew my mom too well. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe me, she simply didn’t want to trouble herself listening to what I said. She had better things to do, like pleasing outsiders and enjoying her life. My words entered her ears and flowed out just as unprocessed. Half an hour later, I experienced the worst food poisoning I had ever endured. She dismissed that too, saying it was karma for not being honest.
Alyssa was taunting me; she knew my mother wouldn’t care. It was all for demonstrating her power over me, belittling me, to stroke her sick sense of ego before finishing me off.
It worked. Every day I was terrified, overwhelmed by the countless methods of punishments she could enact upon me. Her face began to appear on everyone around me; every place reminded me of her and the horrible things she could do. Each night I went to sleep tormented by the inevitability of another day. I never meant for things to end up like this, but I knew that if I don’t stop her, I might not live to see graduation.
The true pinnacle of her revenge arrived two weeks later, on the day of our Friendship Anniversary. It was a special day for both of us. To show how much she cared about our friendship, she sent me a card informing me three days prior that she had something special planned for me.
Despite being extra cautious that day, she still managed to lock me up in the locker room. After hours of banging on the door, the janitor finally found me and let me out. Attempting to calm myself down, I hid in the girl’s toilet. Cramped up in the last stall, I was breathing heavily, my heart nearly pumping out of my chest.
Hands shaking, I lit a joint and took a long drag. But before I could finish my smoke, the toilet door jammed open, the sound of heels clicking on the ground echoing in the room. My hand instantly snatched the pocketknife I carried in my jacket. I knew that sound too well — the way the footsteps thumped rhythmically, marching in small, rapid processions towards the stalls. It was Alyssa in her black high heels.
“Nicole!” She dragged her voice jeeringly, “You know I know you’re in here!”
Her shadow on the ground protruded into my stall, the menacing shape of a long fire axe connected to her hand. Before I could process its implication, the shadow leaped. With a swift swing, she slammed open the first stall, the sound of the wooden door banging on the wall shooting across the compacted space. There was no one; she moved on to the second stall.
“Nicole! You and I both know what’s going to happen, so why don’t you just come out and save us both some time!” The shadow charged forward, another loud slam, this time much closer; she was only two stalls away from me. I bit my tongue, holding back the tears in my eyes.
“You know, it really didn’t have to end up like this.” Bang! Another slam. My stall shook under the force, the walls bumping into me as she dragged her axe on the ground, the sharp noise of metal scratching against tiles screeching and piercing my ears.
“We were best friends, remember? But oh! Poor Nicole just couldn’t see Alyssa be happy! She just had to take away her award! Her honor! Her pride!”
Slam!
“We were best friends, remember?”
Just as I braced myself for impact, she suddenly stopped, her voice small and quiet. All sounds quickly drained from the room; only water slowly ticked down from the wet faucet, tapping on the marble sink. She was only one stall away from me now; the shifted clouds hid her shadow. I held my knife tightly in my palm, prepared to strike at any moment. The silence went on for what felt like an eternity, as if the sound of my racing heartbeats was deafening me.
“For once in your life, why couldn’t you just let me win?”
Her voice came above me, a whisper ringing down. Frozen with my life slowly draining away, I cracked my head up. Peeping from the top of the stall, her face crumpled up; black streaks of tears were running down her make-up covered face.
“Isn’t that what friends do? Let each other win?”
Without warning she slashed down, the axe gashing through my arm and instantly slicing open the flesh, reddening the rice-white stall wall. She raised her arm to strike again; this time, I flinched, barely dodging her hit. Before the pain could fully develop, I rushed out the stall, bolting through the toilet door and running for my life in the direction of the parking lot. Rapid footsteps followed tightly behind me.
I need to reach my car, as long as I can get there, as long as I can get away.
Rushing onto the open field, I immediately spotted my red rover on the far side of the lot, with her black counterpart parked right in front of it. I sprinted with all the strength left in me, hoping — hoping that she, in her high heels, couldn’t keep up. Only hoping because I knew she could.
100 yards. 50 yards. 10 yards. The footsteps ran close. Close. Closer. Nearly there!
Bang! Her axe crashed into the back of my car, sinking into the metal as gasoline began leaking out. I narrowly dodged the attack, crashing onto the ground, my entire left arm bruised, blood rushing out and tissue swelling.
Adrenaline began wearing off, and the pain hit me like a thousand hammers smashing my bones. My legs went limp, too soft to pick me up. Radiating with glee, Alyssa yanked the weapon out of the car, dragging her long dress over the pool of gas gathering under her feet, slowly treading towards me.
“Please, please, you don’t have to do this.” I stumbled as I desperately scrambled back, my lighter falling out of my pocket.
“No, I think I do. Otherwise, how will I win?” With both hands gripping on the handle, she raised the axe. Through the glint of the metal, I saw her eyes. It was full of madness, no longer hers, but someone else’s, shining maniacally as she produced a hysterical laugh.
“Goodbye Nicole.”
She swung down hard, the blade cleaving through the air. Kicking desperately, I threw myself backwards, the axe landing right between my legs. It hit with so much force the blade sank into the ground. Just as she was struggling to pull the weapon out, I threw open the door of my rover, grabbed the separate gas can I stored in the passenger seat, and poured its contents all over her. Dress soaking wet, she halted out of surprise.
“No.” She panicked.
Flipping open my lighter, I threw it at her. Fire rapidly climbed up her dress. Screeching in horror, Alyssa’s hands flailed as she tumbled to the ground, engulfed in flames. The sizzle of cooked meat filled the air; the orange flame consumed her face, roasting her skin black. Gasping for air, she flopped on the floor like a fish out of water, when all of a sudden, her eyeballs popped like squashed grapes, boiling juice splashing before me.
I sat paralyzed in fear as she let out a soul-piercing wail, twitching helplessly as her body finally stiffened, her twisted, crisp limbs fuming in the blistering air, her entire face melted and fused together, the empty sockets staring at me like devils from the deepest pits of hell.
Everything felt like a blur; I remember people coming out of the building, confused by the commotion. Then rushing towards us, yelling things I couldn’t understand. When I finally came to my senses, I was already lying on the hospital bed, my parents sobbing silently next to me. I went to court subsequently for her death, but since the security footage in the school’s hallway captured her chasing me with a lethal weapon, I was acquitted.
It took me three months of therapy to recover from this incident, and even now, I still experience consistent nightmares: Alyssa with her empty sockets screaming my name as she dragged me into hell, demanding why I betrayed her, why she had to suffer.
I know her, I know her well enough to understand that she will never let me go; never again shall I rest in peace. For all nights to come, I will go to sleep, knowing that she’ll be there waiting for me, tormenting me, demanding for answers.
But I had to do it. I had to kill her. Not for self-defense — that’s just a disguise — but to get rid of her. For you see, she’s not the only person that I know too well.
There are some things that I have been hiding from you — not lying, hiding; I’ll tell them to you now. You have to understand that it’s hard for me to write about these, as I know too well admitting them would cause me great distress. Nevertheless, it would be sinful to keep you from the complete story now.
What I didn’t tell you was that, in that competition, the competition that led to our animosity, her story did defeat mine, my initial story, that is. She made the mistake of leaking to me the entire concept of her work, the backbone of her writing, her sole advantage. It was then beyond easy for me to tweak it just enough to avoid plagiarism. With the benefits of a good structure and some compelling descriptions, I easily crushed her with her own idea. I not only took away her pride but also her entry to a good college, scholarships, and her popularity.
But I had to do it. Like I said in the beginning, writing is what I do best, and if she beats me at what I do best, then what am I? She would’ve taken everything from me — my honor, my pride. She was right; I just couldn’t let her win! Well, I didn’t intend for myself to win either, just enough to crush her. In fact, winning was exactly the opposite of what I tried to do, because then she would know my plans. And knowing she did, she knew that I had betrayed her the moment she caught my eyes. Oh, how she told everyone. But nobody believed her. After all, she wasn’t the one known for crafting good literature.
I know myself too well; I know that I could never let her live. She would’ve ruined my life if given a second chance at writing. While she tried to kill me; I tried to kill her too. When she sent me the card, she gave me time to plan. I could’ve stayed home, but how could I miss the sole opportunity to take her down and get away with it? So, I filled up my gas can, lured her into the parking lot by pretending to be helpless, then lit her on fire. And when she burned herself before me, I indeed was paralyzed in fear — fear that she might recover from her injuries, fear that she might live to see another day. So, I sat there, unmoving, watching her die. Then when she stopped breathing, I made sure she’d stay dead by hiding her under her car. It took the school another half an hour to figure out she was even there.
I don’t know what happened to her body or her parents afterwards. Neither do I care. Because sometimes, it doesn’t matter you don’t know, it’s what you know too well that’s truly important.