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Betty's Revenge!
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In July 2015 I wrote a series of short stories entitled 'Betty's Revenge.' 'Betty's Revenge,' describes the turbulent, terrifying relationship between a Headmistress and her secretary. Betty had worked at the school for many years, suffering bullying and abuse on a daily basis. As her predicament reaches crisis point, Betty finally snaps!
In total I wrote three short stories about Betty and never finished the series; something I aim to do in 'Spanish Views.' I have readjusted the words and tidied up the grammar, for a new readership. 'Betty's Revenge,' was written at a stressful time, published in my first blog 'Bipolarcoaster;' as such a rehash is needed.
'Betty's Revenge,' in part refers to the difficulties I was experiencing whilst, working for Oxfam, under a sociopathic boss. My writing then, very much centred around what was unraveling in my life and documents a very grueling twelve months. Betty was a way of offloading my frustrations and anger, without incriminating Oxfam employees, who at the time were under investigation.
In total I wrote three short stories about Betty and never finished the series; something I aim to do in 'Spanish Views.' I have readjusted the words and tidied up the grammar, for a new readership. 'Betty's Revenge,' was written at a stressful time, published in my first blog 'Bipolarcoaster;' as such a rehash is needed.
'Betty's Revenge,' in part refers to the difficulties I was experiencing whilst, working for Oxfam, under a sociopathic boss. My writing then, very much centred around what was unraveling in my life and documents a very grueling twelve months. Betty was a way of offloading my frustrations and anger, without incriminating Oxfam employees, who at the time were under investigation.
Betty's Revenge Part I
We always dreaded Monday mornings, they were her worst days. The stale stench of woodbines, cheap cider and bad breath always tainted the air. As I approached the office, ever so gently, no shoes on, creeping slowly, oh so slowly towards her badly beaten door, my anxiety got deeper and deeper. Sweat began to pour from my brow, into my blood shot eyes, down my frequently broken nose and onto my dimpled chin. A bead of moisture hung there for just a fleeting second, before falling to the floor outside her nicotine stained office. The sound of that single drop, was enough to wake her from where she passed out the night before; the slightest, tiniest most insignificant sound always heard, from her cauliflower ears; able to hear distances, only a cat could detect.
'Oh crap, I'm in for it now!' Shaking with fear, I placed my trembling hand on the brass handle to her office. Inscribed on the door were the words, 'Worlds End;' I continued with the worst task of the week, entering that disgusting, decaying room; a left over from a bygone era. I never liked to knock, preferring if possible to keep her in a passed out state; a victim of her exhausting, timeless, painstaking task, of 'doing her best for everyone;' our boss, our friend, confidante, person to look up to. She was feared throughout the building; everyone's nightmare; our poor misunderstood headmistress, as she always referred to herself.
It was like a game of 'Cat and Mouse', would she move or not; had I got away with it this time or was she going to beat the hell out of me again. I had got used to the bruises, but on this particular Monday, I was still in pain from her neck brace, inflicted as she passed out the Friday before. She accused me of lies and falsehoods; ironic, considering its the only way she knew herself. She said I was scum, a no good for nothing used up old secretary, who only owed her existence to her kind and generous nature. In her terrifying mind, she was a martyr, do-gooder and humanitarian; the truth was rather more terrifying!
I know I should have stood up to her, but we needed the money; my husband was disabled and the medication wasn't cheap. We ate very little, barely had enough to get by, but at least Frank had the pills he needed. My only hope, was that she would change into that person I once knew, the one who used to help others, smile sweetly and cast a motherly eye over everyone, who worked in that run down dilapidated school. Of course that would never happen; she had become unrecognisable, a deranged shell of evil thoughts and vicious ungodliness. She was demented with rage, piercing even the thickest skin with her satanic, alcohol fueled eyes; a woman who cracked open bottles of Stella with her teeth. She scared the living daylight out of me and she knew it; her nasty grin, decomposed voice, loud, gravelly and animated, booming from one end of the staff room to the other. She was bitter and twisted, dangerous, a thing to be avoided and she loved it!
'How dare you enter without knocking' her booming voice, like knives through my nerves. Shaking uncontrollably, hardly able to speak, I offered my deepest apologies!
'I didn't want to wake you, Miss!' I replied.
With a single backhander, to my face, she knocked me to the floor. Stunned, I shook my head. Tears began to fill my eyes; oh god, not again; So much pain. I was thin and pale, badly marked, and inflicted with the scars of my job, and for what, for taking her the post on a Monday morning......
'Oh crap, I'm in for it now!' Shaking with fear, I placed my trembling hand on the brass handle to her office. Inscribed on the door were the words, 'Worlds End;' I continued with the worst task of the week, entering that disgusting, decaying room; a left over from a bygone era. I never liked to knock, preferring if possible to keep her in a passed out state; a victim of her exhausting, timeless, painstaking task, of 'doing her best for everyone;' our boss, our friend, confidante, person to look up to. She was feared throughout the building; everyone's nightmare; our poor misunderstood headmistress, as she always referred to herself.
It was like a game of 'Cat and Mouse', would she move or not; had I got away with it this time or was she going to beat the hell out of me again. I had got used to the bruises, but on this particular Monday, I was still in pain from her neck brace, inflicted as she passed out the Friday before. She accused me of lies and falsehoods; ironic, considering its the only way she knew herself. She said I was scum, a no good for nothing used up old secretary, who only owed her existence to her kind and generous nature. In her terrifying mind, she was a martyr, do-gooder and humanitarian; the truth was rather more terrifying!
I know I should have stood up to her, but we needed the money; my husband was disabled and the medication wasn't cheap. We ate very little, barely had enough to get by, but at least Frank had the pills he needed. My only hope, was that she would change into that person I once knew, the one who used to help others, smile sweetly and cast a motherly eye over everyone, who worked in that run down dilapidated school. Of course that would never happen; she had become unrecognisable, a deranged shell of evil thoughts and vicious ungodliness. She was demented with rage, piercing even the thickest skin with her satanic, alcohol fueled eyes; a woman who cracked open bottles of Stella with her teeth. She scared the living daylight out of me and she knew it; her nasty grin, decomposed voice, loud, gravelly and animated, booming from one end of the staff room to the other. She was bitter and twisted, dangerous, a thing to be avoided and she loved it!
'How dare you enter without knocking' her booming voice, like knives through my nerves. Shaking uncontrollably, hardly able to speak, I offered my deepest apologies!
'I didn't want to wake you, Miss!' I replied.
With a single backhander, to my face, she knocked me to the floor. Stunned, I shook my head. Tears began to fill my eyes; oh god, not again; So much pain. I was thin and pale, badly marked, and inflicted with the scars of my job, and for what, for taking her the post on a Monday morning......
First written 18 July 2015
1 Comments
This is a gripping start to what sounds like an intense story.