The Story of My Life -- The Origin of My Crime

By Chie Theresa Fujioka

This is the old version... If I can dig up the newer one, I'll edit it-VW

Preface

After conferencing with my friends informally (they had no time any other type) about my story, I thought it would be wise to explain myself, hopefully preventing worries about my sanity. Firstly, I want this to be slightly humorous, although others might consider it otherwise. This story is one of the strangest ones I’ve written, dealing with the “taboo” topic of in-school violence. My ideas sprouted mainly from the recent occurrences of mass killings. I wished to tell a similar story from the point of view of the actual person. However, since I have no experience in these types of things, my representation will obviously be flawed. None of the ideas in the story about satanic impulse, motive, or violence, are things I have felt in reference to my own life. This is only a mixture of my conception of how it would feel to be a like person, and how others may perceive this. Even so, I do wish to impress the idea that these feelings could be those of practically anybody. I believe that all are born with a predisposition toward evil, and so believe that these kinds of action will happen throughout human history, although I hope they are rare. Some commented that the over-reaction of the characters was absurd, but I feel that we all do “absurd” things, although not always as severe. Also, I hope those who read this will be more likely to think over their reactions, not wanting to adopt the same absurdity that the story portrays. I assure everyone who reads this story that I am not pretending to be the unnamed main character nor do I share his/her feelings. That stated, I hope my story provokes thought in the readers, whether humorous or contemplative.

–Sincerely --Chie

The Beginning of an Odd Career

I know it is hard to understand, but actually enjoyed my initiation into my career, dislike it as much as I do now. It all happened a while ago, on August 31, 1992, the year I had just entered Tophela High School, or Tophi (like toffee) High, as we called it. As a freshman, I was considered by most of the ignorant 11th and 12th graders to be one of the numerous wimps with much to learn that plagued the school. I showed them! No one expected it of me. Who would expect a perfect little angel to become an example of the other extreme? Why not me? I had been an outcast for far too long. I really don’t know why. I could play their tortuous games and be the terrors they were. Everybody has that potential, hidden or exposed, to attempt the infernal. There have been numerous occurrences of school violence in the history of humankind. As Solomon said in Ecclesiastes 1:9, “That which has been will be, that which is done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun.” I didn’t even have to try, once this unholy and uncontrollable ire seized me. It was like a hurricane on a beautiful clear day: out of place and overly destructive.

It was a normal day, I had some classes, ate lunch, and was talking with my friends during break. We were allowed to do anything and go anywhere in campus just as long as we didn’t break any rules. I was telling one of my many jokes in a series about an “oversized” 12th grade bully, named Ann. She was the butt of many mean jokes because of her size, which could qualify her for sumo wrestling. Personally, the jokes really weren’t too funny, but back then I would have done anything to promote myself into the higher ranks of school society. Well, Murphy’s law has been and always will be my constant companion. Guess who should walk by, but the victim of my lousy humor. Being a short distance behind me when I spoke, Ann heard my every word, each syllable driving her to more intense levels of fury. I, still unaware of her presence behind me, looked up after the punch line, only to see, instead of merriment, fear. These looks of fear made me know that there was something wrong, seriously wrong. Almost instantaneously after these thoughts flashed through my mind, I was grabbed by the waist, tossed on the ground, and kicked in the stomach. Time stopped, and darkness, my friend, kindly rested itself on me.

When I finally awoke, (about 5 minutes later by my watch), I found that I had numerous bruises, but felt little pain in contrast to the anger I felt. My only chance for survival was to distract Ann with the slicing blades of insults. I came up to her and screamed the foulest language I knew, shocking myself with the fountain of evil gushing from my mouth, yet almost laughing at my punitiveness. It seemed so natural, that it seemed I had been born with the evil talent. Ann growled, like a lion about to eat its prey, “Shut up!” Stupidly, I began to mock her, when a totally impolite and disrespectful kick sprawled me out (if you get my drift…). Where were my friends all this time? Gone! I was the only one among them who’d have a chance against Ann, and even this chance seemed useless in my plight. She hissed, “Did you think you could get away?” She stared at me as if her gaze would cause me to begin convulsions, spontaneously combust, and then turn into ashes for the pitying wind to blow away.

Catching my breath, I was about to fling my verbal weapons at her once again, when some of Ann’s notoriously mean “friends” came by. They laughed at my bedraggled appearance and at my once neat school uniform, smudged with the natural dye carried in my veins and the half-digested remnants of my lunch. Ann, confident of my absolute helplessness and defeat turned her back on my vulnerable form, to speak with her friends. Not once did she notice my furtive glances at a discarded baseball bat.

I had never attempted murder before, I suppose it was a very new experience. Perhaps I am one of the only people to contemplate how to murder without wondering why I would, but the overwhelming flood of anger I felt washed all other thoughts from my mind. Surely others have felt extreme anger after being pushed past a point. I never realized it before, but now I know that from that point on, I feared myself, and also what I could do. Most people would probably say that I was over-reacting, but how else was I supposed to react to the over-reaction of Ann? I’m really not crazy!

You can probably guess what I did. If you did, then doesn’t that mean that the action is normal? Well, I took the baseball bat and tried to hit her in the back. I say tried because I was too weak to wield the possibly fatal weapon in my hands. I have to say that it didn’t hit her hard enough to break anything, as I had intended, but only enough to make her lose her balance and fall. I am so glad the school couldn’t repair the pockmarked blacktop on which we stood! As Ann fell, struggling to regain her footing on the ground, she caught her foot in one of many potholes. From her leg came the sound of a loud crack, sort of like that of popcorn. Her friends, probably stoned, just stood with their mouths open, their feeble minds unable to grasp these recent events. I turned and fled, fearing the aftermath of my actions.

Violence is a drug. It numbs pain and gives a temporary high. But it makes your mind duller and eventually addiction is inevitable. That's how it left me. I became dumb, not even hiding and without future plans. And I was totally hooked. There was no way I could stop at this point. I had to have more and more! It became my means of amusement instead of self-defense.

It was many hours later, when the police and teachers found me, walking aimlessly, in the woods nearby. Ann had broken her leg and had refused to attend the school anymore, or so they said after dragging me into the principal's office. They told me that I was lucky I to be juvenile. I wouldn't be given an adult sentence for attempted murder. I said nothing. I could sense the actual relief of the teachers affected by the riddance of Ann. She had previously had a grip on them all, and there was nothing they could have done. Accepting the irony, I knew that no matter how much of a favor I had done them, I would be expelled and sent into some prison of sorts. They call it justice, but what good does it do when nobody changes? I did not have the power of Ann, and without it, I could not get away with what I had done.

The consequences of what I had done were greater than what I had ever known. My life now had no purpose but to serve my addiction. I became one of the living dead, without hope of joy. My relationships with friends and family were gone. I had been wedded to despair itself and didn’t get a divorce because I, still much deceived, enjoyed it. And that was the beginning of the strangest, and now most regrettable career I have ever known.

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