Myra Turner. The most adored girl in every room. Every eye would be fixed upon her grace, dignity, kindness, and elegance especially when she waltzed across the dance floor. She was beloved by all, even the ones riddled with jealousy would kneel at her feet. It was like she was the radiant queen and everyone was her subjects. Or a seductive temptress that everyone had no choice but to bow to.

I hadn’t figured it out yet. Even I could be overcome by her charm but still I wondered. She seemed too loved and too perfect.

And she was. It took a lot of work, digging through the backspaces of the internet, talking to ancient strangers that once knew her, and near stalking to find it out. But I did. Why? I have no clue. I just don’t like phonies, which is probably why I clutched my well loved the Catcher in the Rye book as I debated ruining her. I could. In an instant. But did I want to?

I could blackmail her easy but what would I have to gain? I could keep it for another time when I really needed something from her. Or maybe goat her anonymously, toying with her until she was terrified that someone knew her secrets and was going to exploit them. I enjoyed making people shake.

A probable evil smile curved my lips at the thought and I quickly bit my lip to hide it. I was, after all, at a dance and couldn’t give myself away even if I wasn’t.

I would do the last one. I would destroy this phony once and for all. She would cower before me. I would hold it out for as long as I could, watching her terrified little being shake, before finally winning victory and sending it all to everyone. She. Would. Be. RUINED.

~~~

Myra Turner clutched the note, beginning to hyperventilate. She knew this was another panic attack but she couldn’t stop this one. This message was too terrible.

Written in shaky writing—no that was just her hands— was five words, I KNOW WHAT YOU DID

Who could’ve given this to her? She was at a dance, bumping into everyone, it could’ve been anyone. She was about to be ruined.

A hiccup escaped her and she stared at herself in the mirror, fear gripping her like a vice, and wiped her teary eyes, smudging makeup. No, she told herself, this could all be a joke. It could all be nothing.

But she couldn’t take that risk. She just couldn’t. She would have to put an end to this as soon as possible. It wasn’t like she hadn’t needed to do it before.

Myra wiped her makeup off, reapplied it, and practiced a few smiles in the mirror until she looked like herself. She floated from the bathroom and into the hurricane of noise, vowing to find this problem and dispose of it by tonight.

Because no one ruined Myra Turner.