"You want to kill him?"

Her expression was so serious, my question was purely from reflex.  I knew she wanted to kill him; I'd known it for a long time.  But I'd never thought her the type to go through with it.  I'd never thought her the one to drag a friend into a classroom, and hatch a plot to murder her ex-boyfriend.  But here we were: here she was, and here I was.

And  she looked so calm.  Perched on a desk in her usual manner, sexy, but naturally so, as if she did it without realizing.  That's how I always assumed it was, as she wasn't the type to seduce.  Then again, she wasn't the type to take a life, either.

"Look," I began, "this isn't you.  You're not a killer."

"I can be.  And so can you."

By now I'd taken several steps back; I was nearly at the door.  My mind was screaming at me to turn the knob and walk out on her, but my heart was forcing me to stay.  She was really going to do this; she was really going to kill him.  And she wanted me...

"He's a bastard," I said, "but you don't want to do this.  You don't want to throw your life away, for his sake." I turned toward the door, my hand on the knob, "it wouldn't be worth it."

"Yes, it would."

Her voice broke on the words, and I turned back to her.  She had changed her seating position; no longer sprawled across the desk, now just sitting on the edge.  Her eyes were downcast, and her legs were kicking ever so slightly, like a little girl.  Her shoulders shook.

"I've wanted to kill him ever since he did it..."

Slowly, I returned to her side, taking her hand in mine; pulling her closer into an embrace, which she returned, her face buried in the crook of my neck.  I could feel her tears on my skin.  It made the situation horrifyingly real.

"Think about it," she whispered; her breath was strangely cold on my shoulder. "Everything he's done, everyone he's hurt...and nobody can touch him.  He slips under the radar every time.  Nobody goes public, nobody reports him...and he just sits there and laughs like a jackal at the lives he's destroyed." She turned her chin up to look at me, and the look in her eyes was terrible to behold. "Don't pretend he doesn't deserve it."

Her gaze met mine, and I was dragged into recollection: I recalled the feeling of my fist as it collided with his chin.  It had given me such a rush then, a surge of justice.  I was the judge; I was the executioner.  For an instant, his fate was mine to decide; the power to avenge the girl I love, all the other people he's hurt, was clenched in my fist.  I'd backed down then.  Turned and ran, terrified of what I'd done, hating that I'd let my temper get the better of me again.  But was what I'd done really so terrible?

Wasn't it retribution?

"I hate him," I whispered back, "for what he did to you."

"Me too."

In the classroom, for a moment, there was only silence.

And I made my choice.