Rot

by Candace Wondrak

The rot. The decay. The blackening of my soul.

Funny thing, time. It either healed all wounds or left a big, ugly scar.

Such vitriol. Such hate.

The arrow under his bed stuck in my mind, refusing to leave; a visceral image, almost, its omen one that merely excited me. Regardless of the reason why he still had that arrow, it meant he wasn’t normal. He wasn’t some average, everyday guy—an average, everyday guy wouldn’t keep the bloodied arrow from his father’s death. That’s what I assumed it was, anyway.

There were heroes in this world, good men and women who’d do anything to help their neighbors or strangers in need, and then there were the villains. The bad eggs. The rotten apples that spoiled the bunch and dragged everyone down into the abyss with them. The rot had helped me realize I was the latter, that I’d never be good, and that I didn’t even care to try.

Looking at me, you’d have no idea that I wasn’t some normal girl. No one would ever know the thoughts that ran through my head or the fact that the rot was so thick in me my soul was black.

It was as if the rot had been telling me I’d found my perfect match—something I never thought possible. All my life, I’d thought, surely there was no one out there who could match me, no one who could be just as vile and despicable and horrible as me. No one who could plan the things I’d done, no one who could go through with it and not lose a moment’s sleep in the aftermath. I guess I was a psychopath after all, huh?