Tree of Possibilities

wrote this to a class prompt on revenge in August or so. See if you can spot the revenge?

 My eyes fall on her as she crouches under the shade and security of the seemingly overbearing Jeffery Pine behind her. It is there she remains for an almost immeasurable amount of time, lost in her loneliness and invisibility. The sun casts a beam of light through an opening in the leaves of the tree, which causes the tears streaming down her cheeks to glisten as stars in the midnight sky. As my eyes receive this image, a small malicious smile flickers across my lips and the feeling is so strong I can nearly hear myself smirk. She deserves this, I ponder to myself, for what she's done. And, though deep down in the depths of my heart I am aware she is only an insignificant amount of my pain, my mind craves righteousness, if not only a little, for the suffering I have endured.

            As I continue to study her with feelings of satisfaction, the fragrance of vanilla lingers around me, flowing through my nostrils and  tickling my sense of smell. This sweet-smelling olfaction brings the memories of today's past to the utmost of my thoughts and I let them resurface, as if to embrace my justice.

            My eyes closed, the night before me appears in my mind, the devilish yearnings of vengeance that formed plans in my mind. Finally, after careful selection, I had made my decision, in hopes for utter success. The next  morning my alarm clock wakened me two hours earlier than usual and I was anxious to let my plans fill this new day, this opportunity for a mutual pain and a mutual suffering.

            As I approached the school, I thought one last time of what I was doing. Was it right? I thought to myself as the sun began to climb over the horizon and, in that one moment of weakness, I allowed my vulnerability to show. I knelt to my knees, punching a fist into the ground below me as if to answer the question I, myself, was posing. I made my way up to the office two steps at a time.

            The bell that rung for first period sounded mysterious, even to my own ears, as I waited outside her classroom. As if on cue, the late bell rung and she rushed through the doorway. "Sorry I'm late, Mrs. Robison," she addressed the teacher with ease as she quickly found her seat. "Who are you?" the teacher questioned with surprise, "and why are you in my class?" "I am Doleo, and have been in your class for the past three weeks," the girl responded, her confidence approaching doubt. "I'm sorry, there is no 'Doleo' in this class. Have a nice day."

            I watched then, period after period, the same situation. By the time lunch had come around, the girl called Doleo imaginary to the entire population of her school. Her friends, her enemies, her teachers, no one recognized this girl. As far as they knew, she was simply a familiar face without a name or an identity. What work subliminal messaging did in such short time.

            The rest of the day carried on in the same manner and left her where she was now, directly in front of me with no one to turn to, nowhere to go, and a feeling of emptiness radiating through her which I could feel in me through my empathetic nature.  She is feeling what I've felt my whole life, I stopped to ponder. She is also feeling what she made me feel just last week: completely alone in this world. For she was my closest friend, whom I trusted with nearly my whole heart, body, and soul, that is, until she did what she did and made me once again worthless. I could just hear her words again, whispering to me as the wind calls to the waves crashing against the shores of the beach, "I don't care for you, you are completely oblivious, aren't you? All I ever wanted you for was to use you,  and now that I have, you are free to leave, back to the nothingness from whence you came."

            I once again was pulled out of my reveries by the same sweet scent of vanilla, wafting its way from the pine. And as I watched the tears fall from the girl's crystal eyes, feelings of regret washed over me. Whoever claimed the words "Two wrongs don't make a right" was a wise soul, for the shame I felt overwhelmed me as I began to fall back to my old self, who was selfless, and fatally so. I observed the last tear drop fall to the ground beneath the tree and thought, with a seed of a new beginning, and teardrops of forgiveness, surely there had to be the chance for something beautiful to bloom out of something evil and wretched. The next day the bell sounded its mundane self and, out by that tree of tears and remorse was a large white blossom named hope.