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Challenge of the Month XXXV
R.I.P Challenge: This one is from our social media director, and it's a staff favorite. In our fashion, the winner takes the $100, and this one is judged solely by the social media department. 500 word minimum. We can't wait to read these! In this writing challenge, you will be tasked with creating a story in which the old version of yourself is killed off and a new character is introduced. This new character should be a transformation of the old you, representing the growth and change that you have undergone. To begin, you will need to think about what aspects of your old self you would like to leave behind, and what qualities you would like to cultivate in the new version of yourself. Consider what events or experiences led to your transformation, and how you have grown as a result. Next, you will need to develop your new character, giving them a unique appearance, personality, and backstory. As you write, be sure to incorporate elements of your own life and experiences, as well as any symbolism or themes that are important to you. Finally, you will need to craft a story that brings your old self to an end and introduces your new character. This could be a tale of redemption, self-discovery, or personal growth. Whatever direction you choose to take, be sure to make it a compelling and meaningful journey for your readers.
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thePearl
97 reads

Killing Her

*

That woman over there–she's miserable.

She pastes on a smile in the morning light,

But shatters to pieces in her pillow each night.

She rises early, she showers, she glues

false beauty with potions and paints– she's a muse.

She has ten personalities tucked in her head

–or maybe let's just call them masks, instead.

Today she is timid, her shoulders slump in,

she's ever so quiet, she tucks down her chin.

Tomorrow relentless, she stands on her toes,

she sneers, and she smirks, and she sticks up her nose.

On Wednesday she's beautiful, kind, and fair,

easy to laugh, with long unbound hair.

On Thursday she's broody, and angry, and mean,

but at least that means her house might be clean.

On Friday she dances, she sings, she romances.

On Saturday hides from her husband's advances.

On Sunday she's prayerful, she's innocent, sweet,

with stockings and light polished heels on her feet.

She's everything, nothing, and all in between.

But really she's only a wisp of a dream.

She's fading away–

—Holy hell, stop with the rhyming. 'She's fading away…' Blah. Blah. Blah. Fuck that. I'm going to kill her. I'm going to rip off her mask and show this wretched world what's hiding underneath. I'm going to be her. She will be strong, and she will be kind, and she will be reckless and righteous and playful and angry and sweet all at the same time. I will burn her masks, and we will step into the light, tall and proud and ruthlessly passionate.

I just wish I could tell her, before I kill her, that she never needed to hide. That all she ever really needed to do was be. That if the world didn't like what they saw, it didn't matter one single iota. The world doesn't have to live under her skin. Only she does. I would have told her that she could be brave and fall apart and glue herself back together. I would have told her that none of it was a contradiction. And maybe then I wouldn't have to kill her. Maybe then she'd hear me. But that is a dream, isn't it? I've been screaming at her for years from underneath the mask.

She's deaf to my pleas.

So I'll do it.

I won't delay any longer.

I stab my knife behind the mask, prying it from her skull, peeling skin and flesh away along with it. I want to see her eyes as she dies, as she fades away.

She is afraid.

Terror rolls in nauseating waves. She doesn't want to let go. She tries to shove me off, but I press into her with all of my weight. I am heavier than her now.

I've been feeding on every dead dream she ever cast aside to my little corner in the back of her mind. I let them flash in my eyes now as I raise the knife to her chest. She bucks under me, but it is hopeless and she caves, like I knew she would, for she is weak and she never did have the strength to stand up to me. She had to keep me hidden instead. I plunge the knife into her heart and hot blood pools around my fingers, seeping into my skin, coating me down to my soul in everything that was her.

I rise, draped in a cloak of scarlet blood.

My head is held high, swimming with dreams.

A worthy prize, for killing her.

*Okay, listen-- I know I didn't really do the challenge right, but this just started flowing and I ran with it.

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