I’m Jenny, I’m 29 and live in England. I guess I’m here because…we’ve all done shitty things, right? Those actions we let seep into our unconscious, the things that make games of ‘truth or dare’ slightly more terrifying than they do for others- the sort of things we don’t bring up in the hopes it lets us pretend they never happened.
Well, I’m going to talk about the worst thing I’ve done. Ultimately, that’s why I’m here.
I was probably 9 when I had that feeling for the first time. That gut wrenching guilt, the realisation I couldn’t undo what I’d done. I was on holiday in Wales with a friend and her dad, we were camping near a river. One of the day we were there we went fishing with a little net- the idea is to catch them, have a look in a bucket, and throw them back. My friend and her dad had gone round the corner to find a toilet, and I caught a fish in my net. It was small, iridescent, quite beautiful. As I held it above the water it was flopping around and gasping…it was scared. I didn’t put it in the bucket. I just held it in the air above, watching it gasp, studying its movements.
It didn’t feel like long, but it was long enough for it to stop gasping and wriggling, and it fell still. I heard my friend and her dad coming back, so I put it in the sea and tried to pretend it didn’t happen. I was sweating, my breathing felt shaky and my mind was somewhere in law when they asked if I’d caught anything yet. I wanted to pretend it didn’t happen. I didn’t know dead fish float; they barely took notice of it the way I did. I kept quiet.
There were a few times after that- times I’d done something ‘wrong’ that I just covered up. I got used to that feeling, I guess.
I was an angry teenager- I didn’t know it, I had no way of processing anger. I wasn’t equipped to handle it. I used to silently go to my room or somewhere I could be alone and I’d throw stones, or squeeze things to get that static-hot feeling out of body. My cheeks would flush red and my arms would be tense, but I wouldn’t show anyone else- it would only come out when I was alone.
One day I went to the park to get away, I don’t even remember what bothered me so much. I pulled and squeezed my jumper, and then my hands, but it didn’t work. My skin was getting hot and it felt desperate. I saw a bottle near a bin, I picked it up intending to throw it, but I guess I didn’t know my strength and it smashed in my hand. Small shards of glass pierced my skin and blood streamed down my hand, soaking into my sleeves. I screamed and threw the glass and went home- but I felt better.
It was small progressions over years to get to what happened. I started throwing things in front of people, shouting, I’d say nasty things. My ex girlfriend moved in with me at 20, and it was only a few weeks before I hit her for the first time. She was just constantly there, so consistently present, it felt like there was nothing left in my world because she consumed it. The third time she asked me where I’d been when I got home later than planned, I had that flushing red, growing heat in my body that engulfed my being immediately. I swung myself around and hit her cheek with the back of my hand. She cried. I didn’t care, and went back out. Bless her, she stayed for way too long.
Once she finally left, I was living alone again. I invited a few friends over to drink the misery away, starting the echos around the room of calling my ex a bitch, controlling, whatever anyone would buy so that she could be the ‘bad guy’ and I could avoid telling people the truth of why she left. A guy called Neil had a few too many so I let him sleep on the sofa when everyone else left.
I woke up a few hours later with Neil on top of me, in my bed. He was on my chest and I couldn’t breathe properly. Over the covers, thank fuck- I grabbed his hair and pulled him off me. I was tired and still a bit drunk, but I felt some of that heat rising up. He started apologising profusely- saying he thought I wanted it, that’s why I let him stay over. I didn’t have the energy- I kicked him out and told him to never contact me again.
It was months later that he messaged- I forgot about the whole thing to be honest, but as soon as he messaged, this delayed version of the burning rage came back. He wanted forgiveness, that he’d do whatever I wanted for him to earn it. I screamed to no one and threw my phone at the wall, smashing it to pieces. I tipped furniture and punched through the wardrobe door before I was finally calmed down, left panting on my floor with a pulsating hand from the force of the violence towards my home. The next day I got another phone, and he was the first person I messaged. I asked him to come to my house at 9pm, and to bring wine.
He knocked exactly on time. I watched him wait outside, pacing nervously for about an hour beforehand though. I let him in and showed him to my room. I’d planned this out, and he quickly caught on. I asked him to strip and he did. I pulled out a chair and told him to sit, then I secured his wrists and ankles. He looked terrified, and I could see he was trying to play it cool. His erection didn’t help the situation, and embarrassment covered his face once he saw me look. He was compliant- I put a pillowcase over his face and socks in his mouth, and he didn’t struggle one bit. Not just yet.
I pulled his knees apart and tied them in place. I ran out of rope, but duck tape finished it off nicely. He was shaking, which made me feel weirdly calm. I pulled a little pillow under his chair, the most absorbent one I had, before unwrapping my scalpel and packs of needles.
It was gone 5am by the time I unwrapped him. He’d stopped moving soon before, and the effort it took to drag him out of the house and in front of his car was more than I realised it would be. People are heavy when they’re dead weight, aren’t they?
I don’t know if that’s the worst part, even. The blood, mutilation, dragging him out of my home…or taking photos of the whole thing, posting them on a website best left unnamed so others could indulge in the fury and laugh at Neil’s pained cries.
…
Anyway. That was about 6 years ago now. I had a breakdown soon after, left work for a couple years, and started medication and therapy after being an inpatient for a while. I’ve had a few moments of the rage flushing, but doesn’t get further than crying or calling a friend anymore.
I don’t think about Neil often, but it flashes into my mind every now and then. Sometimes I think I see someone that looks like him, or I get a call from an unknown number and panic. I try to live my life without that night in my head anymore- I don’t tell people about it, I don’t even speak to anyone who knew him back then…nothing. I just pretend it didn’t happen.
So, that’s it. That’s the worst thing I’ve ever done.