Unforgettable

I was eight when I learned not all monsters hide under the bed. Some sit behind you in class, whispering just loud enough for only you to hear.

Nancy was that kind of monster — no bruises, just perfectly aimed words that cut deep and left no trace. Teachers adored her. My parents said to ignore it. But how do you ignore a mosquito that never stops biting?

By high school, I’d mastered invisibility. Then I escaped — college two states away, Nancy gone for good. Until my brother called.

“I’m engaged,” he said.
“To who?”
“Nancy.”

At the engagement party, she smiled that same venomous smile. “Still single? Still rocking that haircut? Retro’s in.” The old sting returned like it had been waiting.

That night, I remembered her only fear — butterflies. In biology, she’d screamed and fled the room. So, for her wedding gift, I ordered two hundred live butterflies, to be opened indoors the night they returned from their honeymoon.

When the box opened, beauty turned to chaos. Wings fluttered, Nancy screamed, sobbed, collapsed — her perfect moment destroyed. I had it all on video.

Matt called, furious. “You traumatized her!”
“She traumatized me for four years,” I said. “I figured we were even.”

He hung up. I never heard from her again.

That night, for the first time in years, I slept peacefully.

Some scars never fade. But sometimes, you get to choose exactly where to leave the next one.