It's strange, the things you think about while falling from a six-story building with a pile of horrible monsters waiting below you, with only a thin, broken door in between you and certain death.

For me, I remembered the day, the hour, the moment, when I found myself.

splash.

Milk spread across the floor, staining my shoes. The seven-year-old boy responsible laughed, and continued stepping on what remained of my lunch.

To the seven-year-old me, this was quite the comical scene. I mean, it was something taken right out of a TV show. During that time, I remember being somewhat excited, because this meant one of many different things.

One: He likes me.

Two: Someone will stand up for me, and I'll get a friend.

Three: He'll get in trouble, apologize to me, and then I will slowly get to know him better, incrementally getting him to open up to me, until he eventually lets me in on the problems that are troubling him, and together we'll solve it. We'll become great friends and, maybe, a little more...

Hehe, but I won't jump to conclusions.

I was an idiot back then.

However, none of these things happened. But, I didn't give up. I know that in these situations, the kid who's bullied will make friends with the rest of the school, and one day, we'll all stand up to him. I continued to think this way all the way until christmas. For christmas, my father got me a Microhard computer, and a copy of -Horn- the best FPS at the time. I'd been playing games since I was four, but never did I play any other as zealously as I did this one.

After some practice, I was pretty good. It was fun. It was the safe haven that allowed me to finish the school year without having a breakdown. For my birthday, January 1, I got an MP4 player. I started mixing sounds on my computer, to help pass time, since dad thought I was spending too much time on my game.

After all, I was just a kid. Without any friends. And a single tormentor. But I'd suffer through it, knowing that when I got home, I'd be able to start up my game, and let myself relax while killing Aliens. I got even better during that time. And each time my tormentor was punished, or told off, he would take it out on me. But I knew it wasn't really his fault.

He was just dealing with problems I didn't know about.

It's just a phase.

He'll get bored eventually.

I'm sure he doesn't know what he's doing.

Things will get better.

At least, I told myself that.

During that year, May, 2002, before school started, my tormentor came over to my house.

I remember that day, Jared knocked on my door. I remember running down the stairs, and seeing him out there. I started trembling a little. Being optimistic doesn't mean he doesn't scare me.

"Heya, Tiffany."

I flinched. That's always what he says right before we start. But the eight-year-old me was much too nice to turn him away.

"H-hi, Jared...it's nice to see you."

I remember the toothy-grin he game me, big and welcoming. So different from the usual sneer.

"So Tiffany, me and fourteen of my baseball buddies have started playing this new game- Horn, you heard of it?"

I nodded. I didn't tell him I'd spent the last several months playing it.

"So, yeah. We all got talking, and all the guys pitched in to get you a copy. We think it'd be fun to have one more person, so what do you say?"

He held out a copy of that game I knew so well. I, being the isolated kid I was, did not have the social eloquence needed to refuse and somehow tell him I already had it. So, I took it. At the same time, I was feeling wonderful.

He'd finally come around. This was it. I would have friends, and I'd even be able to surprise them with my skill at playing the game! All those endless hours of playing, and now was my chance to shine!

Jared left after confirming the details. His dad had set up a local area network, using a system link. For the hour before we started, I waited with anticipation.

I'd put the copy Jared had given me on its' own shelf, to keep the first gift I'd ever gotten from a friend safe. I felt butterflies whenever I held the package in my hand.

Looking back, I feel stupid.

A long-time tormentor, suddenly turning kind, and giving a gift? An alliance of over a dozen other people, all friends of his, all coming together to get something for a kid they didn't even know?

I feel like a fool.

The moment arrived. I entered the game room. Z-Tin live had come out a few days ago, and everyone had a headset. I myself had one, though I didn't think I'd need it. I connected, but didn't say anything. I would only start talking when I'd won. I muted the mic attached to the headset, just in case I sneezed. Maybe then they'd accept me.

I turned on a microphone attached to my computer, and started recording. I wanted to treasure this night for the rest of my life.

I was so excited. The game started, a free-for-all deathmatch, without a timer. I started playing. The fifteen other people were speaking, but I was so focused on doing the best I could, I didn't listen. I'd be able to hear it all in the recording, later, anyway.

I breezed through ten kills, but died when one came up behind me while I was fighting two others. I bit my lip to stop my laughter. Now that I had friends, even dying was fun!

I got a couple more kills, then died to three at once. I got another kill, then died to seven all at once. Soon, it was just me vs. a group of fifteen others. And I died, over and over. I got so frustrated I put down my controller for a second, and that's when I started hearing their voices.

"Hahaha! You're right, Jared. This was totally worth thirty bucks. This kid is so pathetic, it's just a shame we couldn't hear her crying."

"Ha! You're right. Such a little bitch, she can't do anything!"

"Heh, a fucking retard. She should just kill herself, or give up."

I picked the controller back up, but didn't touch the buttons. Ten minutes later, and they still hadn't gotten tired.

They just repeated the same words, bouncing them off each other, and laughing.

"Whore!"

"Bitch!"

"Cunt!"

"Slut!"

"Hahaha!"

I quietly took my headset off. One of them finally won the match, and I turned off my consul. For several minutes, I did nothing, but sit on the floor.

I went over to my computer, and hit stop recording. I knew something those boys didn't.

I could send this recording to my dad, their parents, even the police. They'd get in trouble.

But had that ever stopped them before?

...

When I looked at the clock, it was 1. I looked back at the computer, at my work. It was a condensed version of that games' chat. It only had the insults, and the laughter.

All of the laughter. I downloaded the sound-file into my MP4 player, plugged in my headphones, and lay on my bed.

Then I hit play. Again. And again. And again. And again.

Until I could mouth along to every word they said.

...

When I next opened my eyes, the clock read seven in the morning. I sat up, feeling surreal.

I felt at my face, to find that all my tears had dried. I touched my chest, to feel my heart beating a steady marching rhythm. I got up, walked to the computer, back-upped and saved the sound-file, making certain that every voice among the fifteen were distinguishable and recognizable. Then I pulled out my drawer of USB drives, and started making individual pieces of...

...incentive.

Adults, teachers, and other kids. None of them are reliable. The only things I can rely on are myself, my computer, and my games.

And one other thing. During this time, I noticed something about people, in general.

At the start, only Jared and the bolder of them had openly insulted me. Others were noticeably uncomfortable. But did they quit? Did they warn me?

No. They joined in, even though they were reluctant. What I realized, was that people care about how others see them. Boys want to be seen as tough by other boys. Girls want to be seen as fashionable by other boys. And children want to be seen as good by their parents. Everyone wants to be accepted by society.

Even I have this weakness. But the difference between me, and those boys, is that I have something they do not.

I have dirt.

And I will make it so that every last one of them know the sorrow, the shame, the pain, of being abandoned, alone, isolated, and taken advantage of.

For the next six years, I did unspeakable things. I made others do unspeakable things. It all culminated in my family being forced to move away, but it was all worth it.

During my childhood, I learned that there are some people who are scum, who are worthless, shameless, disgusting, filthy, terrible people. The kind that look out for no one but themselves, who care nothing for anything of others, and are only worried about their own skin. The kinds of people who put their own comfort above the well-being of peoples' lives. The people who don't deserve to live.

But most of all, I learned how to be one of them.

Returning to my case of...well, imminent death, I'm regretful to say I didn't have the time to relive each of my shining moments, but at least I remembered why I did what I did.

If I died now, I would be at peace.

...but where's the fun in that?

My body still bursting with energy, my mind in tatters from the raging emotions in my head;

My heart unbroken by any of the trials I have faced.

I may have nothing but a broken, splintered door between me and a shitload of zombies, but for someone like me, who made their own hell just for revenge,

It's enough.

I'm two stories down. I have a sledgehammer in hand, Longsilver in my belt, and a handful of rounds in my pocket. But none of that will stop my body from being crushed by the fall.

First things first, let's not die of falling damage, aight? I always felt embarrassed from suicides.

Gun, bullets, sledgehammer. Could anyone else survive a six-story fall with only these things? The answer is no.

Which is why I'm thankful as fuck for all of the zombies. I know from experience-human bodies make great cushions. Hitting with my entire body spread on the door may disperse the force, but the fact is that I'll still receive some kind of injury.

Which is why I'm grateful as fuck for this door.

Pushing my arms against the door, I put myself a foot above the door. Then I shift my body-weight, until I'm standing upright. All of this is done within the half-second of time before gravity pulls me down faster than my forward-momentum.

Considering air-resistance and the law of physics, having holes in the door will actually contribute to my survival. Because I am now in a standing-posture, all of my weight is pressing down. Although weight doesn't affect the speed of its' fall, air-resistance does. The zombies, who are spread-out and falling backwards, present an object bigger than the door, meaning that their fall is slightly slowed by the air pressing up from below. The door would also slow my fall, as it is a long, flat object, and as such it would shift to the side instead of simply falling straight down.

However, because of the weight of the forty bodies, the air-resistance is mostly mitigated. Similarly, the holes in the door make it such that air can flow straight through the middle, instead of having to press up and to the side to escape. Like this, I will hit the zombies in mid-air, before we impact the ground.

For two seconds, I fall through the air. Then my legs jolt as the door comes in contact with the top of the zombie pile. I naturally bend my knees, feeling the gee-force pressing down on me, as the zombies are slightly pushing up. But if I hit like this, I'll break both my legs.

To having another broken leg, I have two words: Fuck no.

The ground rushes up to meet me, and I straighten my legs, even through the might force pressing down. Like this, I hang in the air, my jump not making me rise any higher.

The zombies hit beneath me, and I follow by landing on the door. As I do, my legs jolt even harder, as if I'd fallen five feet.

"Fuuuck!"

At least they aren't broken. I pick up the sledgehammer from where it rested on the door on my way down, and jump as far off as I can. The zombies spread-out, making a five-foot radius circle of broken and mangled bodies. Ah, it's so refreshing to see someone else have their body snap beneath them. Maybe now they'll have some sympathy for people who jump off of moving trains.

It's a real thing.

As I put some distance between me and the oh so unfortunate tangle of bodies, I hear a voice filled with lingering pubescent tones, bereft of will and personality, along with an obvious desire to suck d-

"Hey Tiff! A-are you okay?"

I look up, and give a wave.

"Yeah, I'm fine, bitchboy. I had so much breathing room, in fact, that I could fully explain the effect of air-resistance, weight, gravity, and their effect on falling velocity, as well as do an inventory on every last item on my person.."

"Oh...that's...good...?"

The other three appeared, looking down. I yelled back up, "Hey useless, what about you?"

"Oh, I'm doing just fine. I didn't jump off of a six-story building just now, so, I'm feeling pretty good. Want us to come down?"

I shook my head. "Grab Shotty and the rest, then circle round' the back, find some shelter, then hunker down. I'll make my way to you, but for now we've got bigger problems."

"What problems could be bigger than having my homicidal maniac with a gun fetish and a rash sadistic streak going jumping off of buildings?"

"..."

"Well?"

"I have no idea who you're referring too, but you might want to avoid getting hamstrung by the eleven immortal monsters by your feet."

"What immortal-"

"Rrraaaagghhh!"

"OH GOSH!"

I started going at a jog down the main street, the direction the group had come from. Hopefully, those four will be able to get out of there without trouble. Shotty's with em', so they should be able to handle just a couple. I just hope they stay alive.

I don't want to be alone anymore.