The Girl He Thought He Killed

 The Girl He Thought He Killed


Every truth is tainted with a spot of lie.

I told them I didn't do it. That was true—I didn't. But did I want to? Yes.

I wanted to watch every ounce of life seep from his eyes. I wanted him to know, with every fibre of his being, that his time was over. 

Did I want to hear his cries for mercy? Yes. Did I want to watch him turn into nothing? Yes.

I wanted him to plead for his life the way I had—to feel the white-hot pain I felt when he left me broken, wounded, lying on the cold ground to die. I wanted every nerve in his body to ignite with suffering, just like mine did when his sharp knife cut through my stomach. 

He thought I was dead. That I would be an incident he could tuck away. But little did he know that the shattered girl he left that day had learned how to put her pieces back together. 

He didn’t know the voice he thought he’d buried would echo in his last moments.

However, vengeance isn't me, I tell myself—justice is. 

Yet, when I saw his unconscious form lying outside my house, abandoned, I would not lie—there was a part of me that felt pleased.

But as I said before, I didn't do it. Although that is exactly how I would've imagined death for him—slow, deliberate, each scream of his a song to my ears.

But I didn’t. Because vengeance isn’t me.

And still, every truth is tainted with 

a spot of lie.



Written by Navya Chopra

Edited by Harshada Viswanath

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