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True Evil

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I am a monster, but not the kind that lives under your bed or the deformed being on the big screen that eats human hearts. No, I am something far worse.

In the state of Florida, I am a registered sex offender and the truth is, I love children, particularly young boys around the ages of thirteen and fourteen. The way they smell and the way their innocent eyes have yet to experience the forbidden pleasures of adulthood magnetizes me and makes me want to taint their youth.

I know what you're thinking: How can you live with yourself? How can you call yourself a human being? You should be dead.

Yes, yes, I know. But the simple truth of the matter is, I didn't choose to be a monster. I mean, if one could choose their sexual desires, why in the world would somebody pick something this depraved? In all honesty, I wish I was what others refer to as normal. I wish that I didn't have to go door to door and tell everyone about my crime. I wish I wasn't damned; however, I am.

It all started in October of 2013.

Ernest Mitchell, a fourteen year old boy, approached me and asked if he could be go to the bathroom. God, how I adored him. His hazel eyes, blooming maturity and peach fuzz mustache made the lustful demon inside me moan. Logically, I knew this wasn't right. Here I was, thirty-one years old and undressing this punk rock, emo kid with my cold gaze.

I looked at Ernest behind thick-rimmed glasses and asked, "Do you have a hall pass?" The boy shook his head. I bit my bottom lip and replied, in a subtle but tempting voice, "Well, that means I'm going to have to walk you to the lavatory, right?"

Ernest, who was completely unaware of my growing, seductive wrath, looked at me and said, "Sure, dude. I mean -- Mrs. Stephens."

So adorable, I thought to myself, blushing and flipping my chestnut hair. With a dark feeling churning down below, I announced to my eighth grade history class, "Everyone, keep reading chapter nine of Night as I escort Ernest to the bathroom."

On the way to the lavatory, I followed my student closely behind and admired his backside. As I walked, the sound of my heels clicking on the freshly buffed floor echoed down the halls. Mr. Nelson, a science teacher, passed me on the way and optimistically said, "Good morning, Rachel!" In his hand was a cup of coffee and below his thick, grey mustache appeared a smile.

"Good morning, Victor," I replied, keeping my eyes on Ernest's rear. See, Victor Nelson didn't notice because he was running late for his class.

When we reached the bathroom entrance, I glanced side to side to make sure nobody could be seen and pushed Ernest inside. Upon entering the piss-scented washroom, I put my hands on his shoulders and seductively purred, "You wanna feel a real woman and not just the palm of your own hand?"

The boy, who was startled by my abrupt advance, exclaimed, "Woah, Mrs. Stephens! What are you doing?" In his eyes seemed to be a bizarre mix of early teenage curiosity and awkward fear. Without his willing consent, I stuck my tongue inside his mouth and siphoned his exuberance.

At first, Ernest didn't want to taste my saliva, but, eventually, he gave into the dark web of seduction. The innocence of it all thrilled me, causing my sick womanhood to open up like a wicked lotus. When he placed his trembling hands on my breasts, I pulled him close and, in a faint whisper, asked, "You like it, don'tchu?" Ernest nodded his head in agreement. Between our eyes was a magnetic force as we stared deeply into another, but I pushed him away from me and added, "Well, if you want me to teach you more you'll have to stay after class."

"But... I don't have a ride," Ernest replied, with that same fearful look in his face. The only reason he was scared is because he had never felt the tender lips of a woman, let alone experience his first kiss with someone his own age.

"Oh, don't worry," I replied in an alluring tone. "I can take you home."

After short consideration, he smiled and asked, "Sure, yeah, this afternoon?"

"Yes," I informed him. "And don't worry, I'll let your mother know." I paused and added bewitchingly, "I'm sure she will be pleased to know that you're working on getting it up -- your grade, that is."

Ernest awkwardly nodded his head. A fluorescent bulb in the bathroom flickered and in the long mirror reflected a ripe angel and a rotted, evil witch.

After school hours, I made sure that the classroom door was locked and put on Tone of Arc's cover of Goodbye Horses, but kept the volume low enough so nobody in the room over could hear.

I applied on a bit of Cherry lip gloss, undressed myself, and sat on top the desk with my legs spread open. And Ernest, poor, innocent Ernest, looked like a curious puppy dog and stared at me without knowing what to do. Before him was a flesh tone horizon divided by hot pink lingerie. My student anxiously stared into my garden.

"Oh, virgins are so cute," I purred, gently grabbing his hand and moving it up my bare thigh. "Do you like what you see?" I asked.

With a nervous gulp, he replied, "Yeah."

He flashed me a smile full of metal and wire.

"Do you want to please me?" I added, taking off my glasses.

"I... I don't know how," he confessed, as a pink blush formed on his acne covered cheeks. I laughed softly and instructed him to feel around inside.

"It's warm, just like the way you imagine those girls from your wet dreams," I whispered. "Only, this is real. This is your life, and with life comes temptation. It's natural, it's innocent and one must dominate it." Ernest stared down at an area he had only seen in magazines and his eyes were the size of two planets. "If you don't dominate," I continued. "These feelings will consume you and pull you under into a world of misery. You will hate yourself. You will become its bitch. So, do you know what you have to do?"

What?" he asked.

"Conquer it," I moaned. "Conquer that for which you fear and only courage can suffice. Do you understand, my love?"

The student let this new experience educate him. Like a good teacher, I taught Ernest how to really stir a girl and get her going.And in a hushed whisper, I panted, "Remove your clothes. Show me who you really are underneath that veil of awkwardness and angst. Show me a man in the making."

And like a good pupil, he did as he was told.

These same tutoring sessions went on every Tuesday and Thursday until after Christmas break. Despite how I managed to take utter perversion and spin into a warm blanket, I had grown bored of him. The part of me that actually felt genuine deteriorated away, leaving nothing but a bitter gorgon in his presence.

And while he attempted to kiss me, I pushed away and said, "Ernest, we can't do this anymore." A look of disappointment grew on my student's face, which turned into crippling heartbreak. Little did I know that my wonderful pupil had fallen in love with me.

I suppose I was too self-centered to really notice.

He replied, "But Rachel, I thought we had something special."

I quickly corrected him by saying, "It's Mrs. Stephens, and what we had was just a little fling. Didn't you learn anything from our tutoring sessions?" Ernest remained silent and I coldly added, "I wanted to have fun and you are a hormone-crazed kid. This wasn't about love. It was about sex. It was about learning how to please a woman and, well, because of me, you will know what do when you get in high school."

This didn't settle well with Ernest, for he stripped off his clothes and frantically yelled, "But I love you! You can't do this to me!"

When he threw his body on me, I pulled away and snapped, "Get off me!"

My student then became rather sharp and shot back, "You WILL love me, I will tell my mom that you molested me!"

I took out my phone and snapped a picture of Ernest, who stood nude before me. "And if you dare open your fucking mouth," I growled, "I will send this picture to everyone you know. I will post it on Facebook and everyone will laugh at you."

Now, my intentions were to never publicly humiliate Ernest. If anything, this blackmail served for two reasons: To save my career and to give him a reason to fear me. I figured that he was too young and stupid to know the difference. It was then tears came to Ernest's eyes as he yelled, "You can't do this to me!"

"Oh, but I can," I snapped back, rather harsh. "And it will happen if you don't forget that this little thing between us took place. Do I make myself clear?"

He began to choke from a tight knot in his throat and whimpered, "You're a bitch."

"You really wanna call me a bitch?" I threatened, keeping my finger on the SEND button. After a short silence, he gave in and knew that I had the power. The same way power is evil and how evil is of the devil. I smirked and added, "Good. Now, get out of my sight and come to my class tomorrow as if nothing happened. And for the love of God, please stop crying -- you look goddamn pathetic."

After storming out of my classroom, the place where my heart doesn't exist felt a small bit of remorse; however, I quickly brushed it off. For the next day, I acted as if everything were normal. I followed my lesson plan, taught my history class, and made jokes with my co-workers in the break room.

Everything was normal. Mr. Nelson's breath smelled of foul coffee, Mrs. Ammerson was high on a pain pill and, as always, the Coke machine was out of order.

But in the back of my mind was a dark sense of worry, for Ernest had been absent. I wondered if he had confessed to his parents everything and what was to come. That's not going to happen, echoed a reassuring and sinister voice within me. You have scared the little brat and it's all said and done.

During lunch period, I sat in the classroom and picked at my salad while grading papers. This was my moment of silence -- or so I thought. For down the hall came the loud blast of a shotgun. Shortly followed were the sound of screams and frantic chaos in the hall. When I ran to the classroom door to see what was happening, I was shocked to find Ernest holding a gun.

His face was a bloody mess of self-mutilation and on Ernest's left arm appeared my name that he had carved. Holding me at gun point, he desperately asked, "Why couldn't you just love me?" I calmly told him to put the weapon down. Still aiming the barrel in my direction, my student told me over and over that he loved me and that we could have been happy together. It was only until later that I discovered he had been on anti-psychotics and hospitalized for mania the year before.

"Please," I begged him, immense terror built up inside me. "Please, put the gun --"

He interrupted by firing once at the ceiling and I collapsed to my knees in crippling fear. Tears made the mascara around my eyes form into a dark roots that ran down my face in thin lines. I began to cry and snot dripped from my nose. And at that very moment, on the edge of knowing this was it, I realized I had created a monster.

Ernest held the gun at my forehead and asked again, "Rachel, why couldn't you just love me?"

His voice was now dark, twisted and full of shattering heartbreak. The good, tender boy I had fell for had now become an emotional, psychotic wreck. Believe me when I tell you that I looked into the eyes of the devil, only to discover they were my very own reflected in heavy tears.

With heavy sobs, I replied, "But sweetie, I do love you."

Of course, this was a lie. But in the face of death, I had to reason with a creation of twisted pedophilia. A desperate smile pulled on his face. Ernest then added, in a voice that cracked with sorrow, "I-I killed my mother for you, because I didn't want her to come between us." The sweet boy I had taken advantage of shuttered like a maniac and added, "A-and my dad -- I blew his head clean off his shoulders -- I did this for you, I did this so we could have a happy ending. I love you and I know you love me, too."

My pants were now wet at this point and at the child's feet I trembled like a broken mess. And suddenly, out of the blue, a SWAT team barged in and yelled, "Drop the weapon!"

As Ernest turned around, his finger slipped and the gun went off. The blast caused the left side of my face to rip off. If the gun had gone off five inches to right, I would have been dead. The SWAT team then pumped rounds of bullets and blood splattered the walls of my classroom.

While I recovered in the hospital, investigators discovered the image of a naked minor on my phone. All over the news channels I became the face of true evil: Sexual Predator Linked To School Shooting. One day I was a well-respected member of society and the next I was outed as a hideous monster, both on the inside and as well as the outside.

So every time I go door to door and tell people that I am a sex offender, they are presented with this deformed face. On the right is beauty and on the left is exposed teeth, a missing eye, and skin grafts that appear like a leather-faced demon.

The moral of this story is, don't act surprised when you create a monster and it bites you.

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