The screen turned red in an instant as she read the words written on this amateur blog. Those were her words. Well, hers, but not quite.
It all started when she decided to google some phrases from her own writings online when she came across this bold and driven blogger, who – in a bold move indeed – was copying what she wrote. Copying was a generous term for what this little liar was doing. She was rephrasing, and twisting her words and making them sound like her own, but the original writer wasn’t stupid. That was her writing style, her cleverly crafted metaphors, stolen and flaunted across that inane purple blog.
This bitch…she stopped herself. No gender-based insults.
This complete and utter wanker was going to get what was coming to her. She continued to read the various “blogs,” and her anger only rose to new heights. After a little research, she discovered the identity of the thief. It was a captain of the Choir club of her high school. A straight-A student, with shiny teeth, and silken tresses which she planned on ripping from her skull with her bare hands, but she had to calm down. Nothing was ever achieved by letting one’s emotions dictate one’s actions. It was preferable to use one’s emotions to fuel their motivation, a burning fire to warm the spirit.
The first thing she’d do was make this girl regret she ever crossed the writer in the first place. So, she carefully laid out her plan to do just that.
The next day, there was a personal post on the blog. The little idiot was fuming. She was suspended from her itty bitty Choir group until further notice from the administration. In an institution as prestigious as the one they studied at, bribery, theft, and plagiarism were taken seriously. She wove a fine tale of betrayal from her club’s directors but didn’t divulge any information about the reason behind her interminable suspension.
The other giggled gleefully from behind her screen. Unlike the rest of her concerned readers, this one knew the exact reason. The captain had been found sneaking the set list for the Choir club’s next performance at a national level to a competing school. The evidence all pointed toward her because she was the only one issued the list by the directors. The sultry singer may have been excellent vocals, but she was no match for an almost professional from the IT department of the school.
Satiated, for now, the writer posted a short story about vengeance on her own website. What fun!
Unfortunately, the satisfaction didn’t last for long. The plagiarist had decided to keep at it; another of her works was ruined on her blog.
The author almost pulled her own dark locks out of her head in frustration. A snarl escaped her throat, attracting the eyes of several students.
“Program collapsed,” she bit out, which resulted in winces, and groans of sympathy from the other students working on the computers.
The information that got the copycat suspended was made public through a series of diligently constructed methods; rumors, texts, writings on the restroom stalls, and a comment that had appeared calling her out for it. It appealed to emotion because the rest of the Choir club was affected by the greed of one member who decided to make some fast cash on the side. It didn’t matter that no cash had been exchanged, rumors were rumors. They spread like wildfire, and by the end of lunch break, they were everywhere.
The plagiarist looked absolutely miserable, which only brought elation to the vengeful writer.
The following morning, however, was the last straw.
In a perfect text, barely concealed, was the latest piece of writing on the portrayal of black women in media copied almost word by word, published on that insipid little blog. That was it. The bitch was begging for it.
When the blogger used the farthest and least used restroom in the school to escape the sneering girls from her choir, she was in for a nasty shock.
Written in blood red words was the phrase,
Copycats get killed
Scared out of her wits, the blogger made to escape the restroom, but she wasn’t fast enough. Someone slammed her head into the mirror. She was unable to see who, because the perpetrator had angled her head so that they weren’t visible. The blogger was bleeding her from a cut on her forehead. This time, she heard the impact of her head being slammed into the mirror before she felt it. The perp let her go, and she slid down to the floor. The last thing she remembered before fading into unconsciousness was a pair of high heeled boots, the norm for girls in their school.
The author sat smiling smugly during lunch the next day. The blog was nowhere to be found, and neither was the blogger. Apparently, she’d decided to go on vacation two weeks before vacations really started.
Content, she began to type about the “Copycat Killer” on her website.