Fifi

It was in those cold, dark hours of the night that she found the real essence of existence. In bitter solitude, the world unfolded before her eyes with stale clarity. And yet, whenever the urge to grab at the cold, silvery object took hold of her, she could not resist. In the privacy of her silent chambers, she would indulge in the sacred ritual of “cutting”. Nobody could stop her. The pain was liberating—even blissful. And, oh! What secret wonders in that thick, reddish liquid!
And then, she would cry. The tears that slowly trickled down her two sunken cheeks weren’t caused by the sharp pain that penetrated her flesh whenever she did the ritual. No, it was something else. It was the resentful knowledge that what she just did was wrong—but no force, no matter how unearthly, in this universe could stop her from the supreme addiction.
Of course, things did not use to be like this for Sylvia. Until a year ago, she was the perfect girl who made jaws drop whenever she passed by the school corridors. She was the flawless fairy who did everything the right way. Her parents succumbed to her every whim, friends loved talking to her, men admired her with pathetic loyalty, teachers all gave her A’s and other people’s parents wished she were their kid.
Sylvia, being Sylvia, enjoyed every second of this undeserved attention. She knew she was better off than any other student in her school, and she never failed to taunt other “less perfect” individuals for what she calls their “ever so damned existence”.
Unfortunately for her, one of those who had an “ever so damned existence” happened to be Clara. For some reason unknown even to herself, Sylvia just loved ridiculing Clara. “She’s just so depressingly dull,” Sylvia would tell her clique whenever they questioned her unhealthy habit of torturing Clara. Hearing this, her group of friends would all laugh their sophisticated, rich-kid laughs and everything would be all right—except for Clara, who would remain in one corner, stiff as a zombie because of the embarrassment.
It was on a seemingly wonderful Tuesday, the day of Sylvia’s sixteenth birthday, when her fate unexpectedly shifted gears.
She deliberately went to school ten minutes early, knowing that all the other students would want to greet her, and that all her admirers would compete against each other on who would be the first one to give her a birthday present.
Fully clad in designer clothes, she went down her convertible and made her way majestically towards the hallways. As expected, the throng moved aside and people greeted her left and right. Men gave her flowers of all kinds, which she all threw aside (but not after thanking each boy), being too lazy to carry them herself.
Finally, in one corner of the joyous alley, stood her prey, fiddling with her locker keys. Clara, as usual, looked dreary. She wore what she always wore: baggy jeans, white sneakers and a gray, oversized sweater. Her hair was unruly and her thick, square glasses slid sideways. In short, she looked awful. And Sylvia was a person who couldn’t stand awful-looking people.
“Hello, there, Corny Clara. Care to greet me?”
“H-h-happy birthday, Sylvia.”
Clara tried to scuttle away, fearing what her subconscious knew was coming whether she ran off or not. She wasn’t even a meter away, when she felt the familiar tug on her sweater.
“Why are you so keen on going? You’re still five minutes early for your next class, you know.”
Everyone was staring at them now, obviously enjoying the early morning entertainment. Some were giggling behind their textbooks, but nobody made any attempt to help the poor victim of Sylvia’s ruthless humor.
“Why can’t you just leave me alone? I’ve never done anything bad to you.”
“Never? Why, you call ‘being an eyesore’ everyday as something NOT bad?”
“I’m going now—whether you like it or not.”
She started to move, not taking into account Sylvia’s small delicate foot wrapped in red, strappy stiletto which was lying innocently in front of her feet. Following the fundamental laws of Physics—namely, gravity and friction, we can therefore conclude that Clara fell. But mind you, she didn’t just “fall” as scientific data would blandly put it. Clara landed on the cold pavement with a loud smack that reverberated for a few seconds along the walls of the corridor. It was quickly followed by peals of laughter for the funny scenario and hoots of approval for Sylvia’s rare ingenuity.
Of course, this was not something new to Clara. In fact, she experienced such cruelty every single day of her life since she entered Graham High. But on that particular day, her string of patience (which thinned after every encounter with Sylvia) suddenly snapped.
Lying there, in the midst of the yelps of pleasure of the inhumane crowd, face down the cold pavement, her cheeks flushed with uncontrollable anger. Clara slowly stood up, and in a whisper Sylvia barely heard but understood perfectly, she said,
“You will pay for all this. Just you wait. I will make you pay for everything.”
And then, the victim left with renewed confidence, satisfied at seeing the expression on Sylvia’s face; a contorted mix of fear, anger and disbelief.
For the rest of the day, Sylvia could not think well. Clara’s unusual statement kept prodding at the back of her mind, pulling her thoughts away from the mundane activities of school.
It was at sundown, however, that Sylvia resolved to do something about it.
She was having a party at her house. The large living room trembled with loud music, laughter, and bits of conversation. Sylvia’s parents were out having a dinner at some fancy restaurant with business friends, and she had the whole manor all to herself—and of course, Fifi, her spoiled and pampered French poodle.
But where was Fifi when she needed to brag it to her schoolmates? Oh, that naughty dog! Sylvia excused herself from the crowd and began her vain search for the introverted poodle. After ten long minutes of rummaging about the house, she began to break out in cold sweat. Oh, where was her baby, cutesy-tootsey poodle? Surely, Fifi must be hiding somewhere, gorging on a slice of strawberry shortcake.
Exasperated, Sylvia sat down on a couch and sighed heavily. Before long, she heard soft anguished whimpers—it came from outside the kitchen. In panic, she rushed towards the door. Obscured by darkness and distinguished only by the faint illumination of the full moon, there was the bleeding Fifi, lying helplessly on the grass. A small, sharp object protruded from its stomach—a knife. And guess who was kneeling beside the dying dog with blood on her hands? It was Clara, with a cold-blooded smirk painted on her face.
Months after the incident, Sylvia would not be able to remember much of the details. Maybe she refused to remember, because she could not help but feel the nauseous guilt that gripped her by the throat whenever it all came back to haunt her—or so her psychiatrist says.
Whenever Sylvia was back in her room during the lonely moments of darkness, she would try to close her eyes and muster all the courage she had in her to recall what really happened.
And then, like a hideous birthday present wrapped in shiny cloth, she would take off the wrapper with trembling hands, ever so carefully. And it would come back to her in whirlwind haste.
The moment she saw Clara kneeling over the dying Fifi, she knew what she had to do. She pounced on the dog killer, and, grabbing the callous weapon that killed Fifi, she stabbed it on the soft cushions of Clara’s stomach. She heard shrieks around her, and blinding flashes of light, but she could not stop. She bashed the metal in, out, in, out, in joyous laughter, cursing the hands that tried to pull her away from that ecstatic moment. Blood was spattered all over her new, expensive cocktail dress, but she could not care less. She could even taste the salty, metallic liquid that painted her lips and she knew it tasted better than the cherry-flavored, plum-colored lipstick she bought at an expensive boutique.
It lasted for a very long time—five years, at least. She could not stop herself. She could not stop feeling the unique sense of bliss that clouded her thoughts and erased any trace of logic from her brain…
Until she heard it—the slow, piercing siren that grew louder and louder until she had no choice but to cover her ears. They had come to get her.
Exhausted and spent, she lay gasping on the itchy grass, as her party guests made way for the fat men in navy blue suit to come and get her. She made no attempt to resist the strong arms that held her body and chained her bloody wrists from behind.
She followed them in a daze towards the cab. The last things she saw from the cab were other teenagers staring disgustedly at her and Clara’s bleeding corpse being placed inside an ambulance. Nobody tried to save Fifi.
Sylvia did not want to remember the chain of events that followed later; the lawyer bailing her out of jail, the court trial, her being acquitted due to what they called “psychological disturbances”, the cruel newspaper articles making Martha look like some good kid and Sylvia a rich, spoiled murderer, the long days when she had to remain idle in her room with none of her friends bothering to call her and offer comfort, the psychiatrist who visited her everyday, spending long hours recording every single word she said….they were all nightmares. She didn’t want to remember anything.
But the actual murder, it was different. Much as she hated to replay the memories of that dark moment, she could not help but feel an embarrassing kind of solace in bringing back the intense bliss she felt when she stabbed Martha to death.
Back in her room, Sylvia would try to think things out. She was not guilty. She had every reason to stab Martha. People wouldn’t understand that. They find her psychologically disturbed for killing someone…but oh, don’t they realize that Martha cold-bloodedly killed Fifi? But then, Fifi was nothing to them. They didn’t even try to revive the poor creature and bring it to the hospital.
She would cry oh, so bitterly as she recalled the cruel words of the people around her. The night of Martha’s death, after having explained everything, her mother gasped in disbelief.
“Oh, dear Sylvia, there was no Fifi…we never had a dog…Fifi never existed, dear darling…”
No dog…no Fifi…ha! They must be crazy!