story that incorporates revenge based on The Count of Monte Cristo
Out of Spite
“Life is a storm, my friend. You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when the storm comes.” (IMDB 1) I’ve seen my cell walls many times, I’ve also seen the dim sunlight as it enters in through the slits they call windows. I’ve stopped worrying about time. Here, time is all I have. You’d think I messed it up; in your mind I surely killed a man or raped a child. Let me tell you something, that’s not far from the truth. “There are 72,519 stones in my walls, but I haven’t named them yet” (IMDB 1)
It was 1987, I had 20 years old. I had recently moved from Poughkeepsie to the big city, I wanted to become a writer, a famous one. Little I knew I’d be doing my writing in a cell, surrounded by filth. I was a careless young man, some girls even said I was good looking, that perhaps if writing failed I could try acting. Little I knew that New York chews and spits writers for a living, and that what I was trying wasn’t new. I knew a lot of them, guys with impeccable manners, and girls with gorgeous bodies; they all tried to be famous in the big city.
Some people even made bank with us, young aspiring writers, offering us literary deals only if we gave them money in advance. I was fooled one but I will never be fooled again, or that’s what I thought. Her name was Marnie, she was 35 at the time. A stunning brunette that said she could turn me into a famous writer. She had the connections; the looks, and the money to make it happen. To seal the deal, I started sleeping with her. In my mind, I was the king of the world, writing in the day, fucking my agent in the night. For a 20-something, it was heaven. A couple of months later I had my first manuscript, unsurprisingly it was the story of a 20-something trying to make his big break in New York, it had sex, and intrigue. In my mind, I was already famous, getting the praises and accolades I deserved for being the writer I thought I was.
I turned my manuscript to her, to Marnie. She read it and told me it was a disaster. Why would I think people would pay to read the misadventures of a guy like me, a guy who worth noting more than the clothes he was wearing? I got mad and stormed the room. I knew my novel was excellent, I knew it, and how was Marnie so blind not to see it?
“Why not just kill her? I’ll do it! I’ll run up to Poughkeepsie, to my parents’ house – bam, bam, bam. I’m back before week’s end. I find another agent. How is this a bad plan?” (IMDB 1) However, I knew I couldn’t I didn’t have the nerve to kill her. I was not in love with her, that is for sure, but I was not a murdered. At least not a cold blood murdered. I had to think outside the box, I had to do something else.
Marnie was addicted to pills. She represented many big names in the industry, and she was always stressed, I had seen her popping pills in her mouth like a child eating tic-tacs. If I could work my way around that, and kill her, the job would be done. If someone asked, I did not know, all I knew is that she was a junkie, and who believes a junkie? You could ask “what happened to your mercy, and I would say that I’m a man, not a saint” (IMDB 1) One day I just did it, I brought her a bottle of wine, to make her believe I was not mad at her for turning down my book and told her to relax. Little did she know that wine would react with the pills in her system, making her slowly drift to unconsciousness. I gave her more wine, and as she started having a seizure I cleaned the room, hiding my presence the best I could. I went to my parents’ house and stayed there for a month. Laying low from the repercussions of what I did.
A few years passed, and I started to read my manuscript again. Marnie was not wrong. My book was worthless. It was a juvenile recollection of scattered stories that did not make sense and weren’t knit together properly. I had killed women out of vanity. Out of spite, out of youth. Should I be punished for what I did? I thought so. I went to the station and confessed my crime. I was not sorry for what I did, I was ashamed. I had killed someone out of stupidity, and in my head, I had to pay, it was as simple as that. I wasn’t prone to repent. Besides, in jail I would have plenty time to write my novel. You are new in this cell, you’ll grow used to it. Try not to get killed, and do your time quietly. “Here’s your final lesson, boy. Do not commit the crime for which you now serve the sentence. God said: Vengeance is mine” (IMDB 1) I know you don’t believe in God, and neither do I, but apparently he believes in us.
“Quotes from The Count of Monte Cristo” IMDb. IMDb.com, 2002. Web.
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