There is a line to life I am scared I am bounding over. It's the line between demanding respect and being a complete asshole. As a female, I get some sense of pride, whether it was trained in me or not, when I prove a man wrong or tell him no. But, sometimes I think I'm over doing it. If equality is the name of the game, then why do I enjoy treating men worse than women?

The answer to this is simple; or at least the justification for my brutish behavior is. The men I like defying are all brutish, cocky ones. I wouldn't want to yell at a small and quiet teenage boy walking in the halls of my school if he accidentally tripped me, for example. But, if a big, self-righteous one tripped me, I would assume it was on purpose, and a handful of cusses would be spat in his face. Especially if he was smirking. For fucks sake, I HATE smirking.

So, when I'm in the wrong in a situation with someone I feel kindly about, but they happen to be a big, argumentative beast of a man, I am wayyy less likely to realize that whatever happened is my fault, and wayyyy more likely to raise my voice and get angry, and tell myself that I'm being "self-respecting and self-empowering." Especially when they argue back or start off the conversation in a derogatory way.

I'm trying to train my brain out of this habit of saying "fuck you" to every Chad that tells me I'm a bitch, even if said Chad had good reason to say so. Maybe this is a problem a lot of women have, or maybe I'm just alone with this one, but I thought it might be helpful to put out their to see if anyone can internally relate.

I don't yet know yet, I'm still young. But I can feel the panic setting in. Sinking. Stealing from my mental freedom. I'm not a kid anymore, and however nice it is now to not have to do exactly as everyone tells me, there's still the lingering sadness that comes with never being able to do kindergarten arts 'n crafts ever again. No more teddy bears for me.

Sometimes I wish I could be coddled again, someone always telling me what to do and where to do it, never any existential thoughts or anxiety. Just me and my brother, living in our own world in a two bedroom apartment, crying, laughing, and laughing because we were crying. Watching Dora the Explorer on a small TV in my underwear, eating dry cheerios from a green bowl (the cool kind with a straw built in). Chasing my brother around, dragging my beloved stuffed cat behind me, and whining until he would give me a turn on his D.S. Knocking on the door of the apartment next to ours, because the old woman that lived there liked to give us stale suckers. Going to school and loving every second of it; feeling like an absolute genius only because of the gold star at the top of my math homework.

Now I have car insurance. And missing assignments.

I know there are positives to both sides, but sometimes it feels like all the raw happiness, the kind I don't have to work for, was used up from ages 2-11. Everything's a game now. You have to earn the smiles and laughter, and sometimes, even when you've done the right things and did what you could, you won't be granted them. Because that's just the way life is.

Sometimes I think about the absurdity of it all. All of us. Chasing those beloved green trees. The ground up, dead ones. (and fives, twenties, hundreds.)

Everything is made up.

I get to thinking about how in my teenage years, the only teenage years I’ll ever get, I’m sitting here, on this governement provided stool, avoiding the things that “have to be done.” Who decided that while I’m 16, and never will be again, I should spend 8-10 hours every weekday obsessing over meaningless formulas and rubrics? A commitee of old fat white guys? I know, an education is good, but for what?

For playing the goddamn game, that’s what.

The one we have all been thrown into, trying to win enough to stop playing. The chase for money. Tag, your it. Forever. Chase it. Keep running. It’s embedded into everything.

Of course, you’ve heard this all before, and just because it comes from a self righteous bitchy teenager doesn’t make it more interesting, I understand that. But sometimes, I don’t want to wake up at 6:30 to brush up my teeth, hair, and brain. Sometimes I don’t want to do problems 2-18 and 32-60 evens. Sometimes I don’t want to be told where I can stand and when I can shit.

Can’t I just sip a kool-aid in the snow at one oclock on a Monday?

My study hall teachers response is:

“You can do that on your own time.”

WHAT? If this isn’t my time, then who’s fucking time is it? I’d really like to know.

Let’s quit our day jobs and go play “Little House on the Prairie” for 10 or so years.

Who’s with me? (Kool-aid will be provided.)

Fuck. There I was, in a dangerous situation, as per usual. Hedonism and responsibilities do not go hand in hand, as was being proven to me for the millionth time.

Tipsy, and a flat tire. 2 flat tires actually, with only one available spare, which of course, as the prissy suburban girl that I am, I had no idea how to put on. I had seemingly managed to run over someone’s nail collection that was left on the side of the road. I hope they didn’t want it back.

I took in the situation. It was dusk, on an empty highway, because no one else parties at 5 o’clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday. I had to be home soon or my dad would know I wasn’t at work, at the job I quit months ago but kept the outfit for a convenient excuse to leave the house for hours a day. It was a nice job really, but what is a teenage alcoholic supposed to do? Continue being a waitress? I don’t think so, and you don’t think so either. So I quit, and rationalized it by repeating the words “I’m only young once” and “I got to live life.”

You see where that got me.

No money for a tow, the clock was ticking for the time left of my “shift”.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This is a classic, right? Skinny blonde bitch stranded helplessly on the road. I knew, however, that this wasn’t going to end in a classic romantic kiss. The only thing this would lead to was a shtiload of trouble. My dad was going to find out all the lies, search my room, put me in jail, oh my god oh my god. I was thinking about how terrible the showers in juvie will be when the hairs on my neck stood up at full attention.

A small, brownish tan Volkswagen vehicle was pulled up next to me. Like, right next to me. I instinctively pressed the lock down on my door. I groped the pocket knife in my, well, pocket. You know, the obligatory going-to-a-rave pocket knife. I squinted my eyes to see who was driving, expecting to see some ogre slightly resembling a man (mossy bald head, 2 teeth, hot breath) but, to my surprise, I saw a tan Ken doll staring back at me. Taken aback, I stared at him for a second or two, before flashing him my freshly whitened teeth. He flashed his back.

At this point I’m conflicted. Part of me is thinking, Emily, your being so stupid, this is how people get turned into coats, but then the teenage girl side of me was thinking that pretty people dont do evil things, they are always nice and friendly. Spread a little gossip and talk a little trash, maybe, but not full on kill anyone, let alone abduct people.

So, for the thrill of it (like always), I crank my window down.

“Hey.”

“Hey, what are ya doing parked all sideways on the side of the road?”

“Well, to be honest with you, I’m in a bit of a predicament.”

“Predicament, huh? Big word for a pretty girl like you.”

A feeling split between “roll up your window” and “he thinks I’m pretty.”

“I like to think I’m pretty intelligent.”

“But stuck on the side of the road?”

He was witty too. Cute, and therefore, dangerous.

“You got me there. Some asshole left a bunch of nails in the middle of the damn road, and now I’m gonna be late home.”

“Too dainty to change a flat?”

“Two flats, one spare.”

He put his hand on his scruff and stroked his sculpted chin accordingly.

“Yup, that’s quite the predicament.”

The clouds had hung low all day, threatening to fuck up my evening, and they weren’t bluffing. It started pouring, as if on cue. I started to crank my window up, but, as you could guess, the damn thing wouldn’t go up. I tried lifting it with my hands and everything, but the thing wouldn’t move. The rain started pouring in, onto my sweater and prop work pants, and I let out a shout of frustration and smacked my hand on the dash. “Dammit!”

“There’s a seat over here you know”

I had almost forgotten he was there; he felt like a fever dream. I was trying to decide if this moment was serendipitous or the opposite thereof.

“I don’t know.. This is how all horror shows start, ya know.”

“I understand, I hope you find a ride back, miss. Have a good day.”

He put his hand on the shifter.

“Wait!”

He put the car back in park and smiled at me inquisitively.

“Miss me already?”

God, he was good. Mid 20’s and bookish, but smug in an attractive way. I considered my options. Stay here in my car that was slowly becoming a rain collection bucket, or get in the warm Volkswagen with a handsome stranger, who could then drive me home. I could get there on time, and avoid so much trouble. And, the ultimate deciding factor; he was very, very pretty.

So what did I do? You already know.

He slid back into the drivers side to make room for me, and the leather was warm with his body heat. I slammed the door shut and tried to pretend he was an ugly old man. I couldn’t let this guy woo me, as he was clearly used to. I just had to get home, and get there safely.

Things didn’t go as planned, or I wouldn’t be writing this, of course.

“It’s about 10 minutes away.”

“Your house?”

“Yes, thank you, by the way.”

“Do you live by yourself?”

Red flag? No, my mind reasoned, just small talk.

“No actually, with my dad and my little sister.”

“Staying at home for college or what?”

“No, I’m actually not in college.”

“Not going?”

“I am, just after I get through highschool.”

“Highschool. You’re still a schoolgirl? I’ll be damned, I would have bet you were 20, with an ass like that.”

I shouldn’t have come here. I shouldn’t have got in.

“Thanks. It’s a right at the next stop.”

I kept the words short and cold, uninviting. Charismatic as he seemed at first, he was getting way too creepy, way too fast. I hunched forward and kept my head perfectly straight.

“I mean, really. You’re gorgeous. I love your hair. It’s so long.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s your name anyways, school girl?”

He had a smile on that once seemed inviting, that now seemed greedy.

“Emily Hankfeld. What’s yours?”

I thought maybe I could steer this conversation in a better direction.

“Theodore Bundy. But everyone calls me Ted.”

At this point, he was looking at me more than seemed safe for driving in the rain. I didn’t look back, but I could feel his eyes moving up and down, up and down, up and down.

“It’s this right up here”

He didn’t turn..

“Ted, that was the turn. You missed it.”

He pretended not to hear me.

“You know, most of the time when a handsome man picks up a stupid cunt off the side of the road, he gets more than a thanks.”

My stomach dropped. My heart stopped. He took a left onto a long gravel driveway. The only sounds that escaped my mouth were the sharp inhales and exhales I was trying to control.

“So beautiful; such a shame you’re so young.”

A glimmer of hope. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he had morals. Maybe.

“Too bad this is where it ends.”

As the car rolled to a stop, the adrenaline took full control. My mind stayed frozen while arms tried to open the door. Locked from the inside. He planned it. Hands smacking on the glass, my mouth screaming words I couldn’t hear.

“I would say I’m sorry, Emily, but I’m trying to work on my compulsive lying.”

I remember the pain in my skull as he pulled my head back by my hair and put his hand over my mouth. My fingers remembered the knife in my pocket.

“Don’t pull any funny business, Emily. I want to have a little fun first. You’re okay with that, aren’t you?’

I screamed against his calloused hand, and he smiled. My legs kicked the air and his car.

“Careful bitch, yout gonna break the glass.”

He laid down on top of me so I couldn’t move. And fuck, was he heavy.

I was running out of air, out of energy, and out of hope. All I could do was look into his eyes and hope there was some empathy in there.

There wasn’t.

I was suffocating, and he enjoyed it.

“This is your own fault you know. Didn’t your mom ever tell you not to get into cars with strangers?”

As I was giving up, fate decided not to. Someone was driving down the driveway. This caused a high level of anger from Ted, which was demonstrated by a slap in the face.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

He sighed and pushed me to the side. He put the car in reverse and pressed on the gas.

Now, I’d never hurt anyone if I didn’t have to. I cried when I accidentally stepped on our cat. I need you to understand this isnt in my nature.

He grabbed the steering wheel and I grabbed the knife.

A 3 inch blade in the jugular isn’t good news for anyone. I still remember the look in his eyes. It was clear what he was thinking:

“You bitch.”

I sat there, killer’s blood spurting onto me, and his body slumped forward unto the steering wheel. I was in shock. I still am. You can imagine the old man’s face whose driveway I’d just killed someone in when he finally made his way to us. He turned right back around. I would too.

The police were impressed by me, but to this day I wonder if he would’ve actually gone through with it. The savage look in his eyes and the tightness of his fist said yes, but who knows, maybe he was a good person. Or maybe he was going to become a world renown serial killer.

That’s giving myself too much credit, I think.

*So I entered the contest with this same story with my original account ellenecky, but only today did I realize I had to be a gold member to particpate. I tried to make my old account a gold account, but it kept saying "unable to add subscription", so I had to make a whole new account to make it gold. Anyways, I jusr wanted to explain the fishy twice entry of the same peice.