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Betty's Revenge Part II!
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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 II
I had always planned her murder, I knew one day I would; if she just pushed me enough, I would crack. I could not take any more, could today be the day; could I really do it, push that letter opener straight through her cold heart. Yes I could, I would, for me, for Frank, for the children and School, for the damn good of humanity. I really will do it this time, she had it coming to her....
For a brief second she nearly had me, down at heel, at her level of immorality and lack of self control; temporarily I had reached such depths of depravity, that I became her. I AM NOT HER! I am a good, moral and truthful person, who only seeks to right her wrongs. I may be just a secretary, but I am a damn good one and she knows it; I stay because of circumstances, not out of loyalty.
She stood there, towering above me, as I lay on the floor. I had such fear and loathing, I was unable to distinguish between the two; a momentary loss of faculties, that could have quite easily turned bad; I must practice self control. I am better than her, she is but a spineless shadow, manipulating her way through life, through the misfortunes of others; give me strength!
Her alcohol soaked breath, engulfed my senses; the disgusting smell of a drunk, nothing more, nothing less. Her strength came in a bottle, her control through hate and her violence through lack of character. She could barely stand up and her voice was racing; virtually inaudible. Suddenly I felt strong, better than her, above her warped deeds and for the first time, she was lower than I'd ever seen her. She was an old, near blind middle aged spinster, caught up in her own game of power and control. What the hell was I doing on the floor, confronted by this shell of a soul.
I placed my arms firmly on the floor, my nails dug vigorously into the parquet wood beneath; gripping onto all the wrongs that she had done to me and others. The more I thought about her terrible acts, the firmer I gripped, the angrier I became and the more determined I felt. One nail broke, followed by another, then the rest. My perfectly manicured hands, turned into those of a navvy; I had always looked after my fingers, they were my livelihood, but today it did not matter, they became the hoist to lift me from the depths of despair; suffered all these years.
Arthritis or not, there was no pain today. I stood taller than the cheap heels on her feet, firmer than the bottle in her hand; I was now in charge. As I pushed my self upright, I noticed, just how small she was; a fake person, stooped over through years of abuse and bitterness. Her clothes were soiled, unkempt and her sarcastic grin became a quivering lip of submission. She actually looked scared of me, the woman she took great pride in destroying, for her own satisfaction.
This was my time and I wasn't going to let it go........
For a brief second she nearly had me, down at heel, at her level of immorality and lack of self control; temporarily I had reached such depths of depravity, that I became her. I AM NOT HER! I am a good, moral and truthful person, who only seeks to right her wrongs. I may be just a secretary, but I am a damn good one and she knows it; I stay because of circumstances, not out of loyalty.
She stood there, towering above me, as I lay on the floor. I had such fear and loathing, I was unable to distinguish between the two; a momentary loss of faculties, that could have quite easily turned bad; I must practice self control. I am better than her, she is but a spineless shadow, manipulating her way through life, through the misfortunes of others; give me strength!
Her alcohol soaked breath, engulfed my senses; the disgusting smell of a drunk, nothing more, nothing less. Her strength came in a bottle, her control through hate and her violence through lack of character. She could barely stand up and her voice was racing; virtually inaudible. Suddenly I felt strong, better than her, above her warped deeds and for the first time, she was lower than I'd ever seen her. She was an old, near blind middle aged spinster, caught up in her own game of power and control. What the hell was I doing on the floor, confronted by this shell of a soul.
I placed my arms firmly on the floor, my nails dug vigorously into the parquet wood beneath; gripping onto all the wrongs that she had done to me and others. The more I thought about her terrible acts, the firmer I gripped, the angrier I became and the more determined I felt. One nail broke, followed by another, then the rest. My perfectly manicured hands, turned into those of a navvy; I had always looked after my fingers, they were my livelihood, but today it did not matter, they became the hoist to lift me from the depths of despair; suffered all these years.
Arthritis or not, there was no pain today. I stood taller than the cheap heels on her feet, firmer than the bottle in her hand; I was now in charge. As I pushed my self upright, I noticed, just how small she was; a fake person, stooped over through years of abuse and bitterness. Her clothes were soiled, unkempt and her sarcastic grin became a quivering lip of submission. She actually looked scared of me, the woman she took great pride in destroying, for her own satisfaction.
This was my time and I wasn't going to let it go........
First Written 18 July 2015
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