Frenemy

The hot, scratching sensations from the constant bee like stings of the tattoo gun on her forehead and cheeks went unnoticed, as Susan slept soundly through it all. It was one last shot of tequila, after the many that preceded it, that had her so completely removed from what her body was experiencing. At one point, she was actually snoring, deep, rattling vibrations that only someone fully blackout drunk can produce.

FRENEMY, that was the word being tattooed on her face in a tribal fashion, complete with curved lines and spiral shapes for good measure. The way her tattoo artist saw it, it was a public service announcement. A scarlet letter of sorts, to let the unsuspecting public know exactly what kind of menace this woman really was.

Susan was an accountant at a high-powered finance firm. As the only person in her department, she behaved as if she were the ice queen of the castle, looking down on all others in the office. She considered herself a woman of high intellect and true worth. She could never relate to the, as she described them, empty headed former cheerleaders and prom queens that the boss kept hiring to staff the other departments. Simply having to hear their mindless chatter, their droning on daily, offended her delicate sensibilities.

Just one month before the night of her face being tattooed, Susan had met Monique, the latest bimbo-esque new hire, for the very first time. What Susan could not have known was that Monique was the college sorority sister of Maryann, the woman Susan had taken on as a workplace friend just a few months prior.

The newfound friendship between Susan and Maryann confounded everyone in the office. No one could understand how either of them could relate to, much less stomach the other. But their friendly exchanges seemed genuine. From one side, at least, they were not.

Susan’s system for eliminating anyone she deemed unworthy of “her office” was simple enough. She would start off as a dear friend and trusted confidant. That’s why she listened so intently when Maryann shared the heartbreaking details of her life.

She opened up about deep betrayals. She shared horrific stories of abuse in every conceivable form. She described how hard it was to hold herself together each day, juggling the demands of being a mother and a professional. And once Susan had everything she needed, every wound exposed, she began to systematically tear her down emotionally.

Susan was drawn to crushing the spirit of a particular kind of woman: one of means, with a sense of style, who came in like a ball of fire, strong and self assured, yet willing to take care of others, and clearly struggling with something personal at home.

Once Susan saw her checklist in a living, breathing human being, she would sink her claws in. Day by day, she chipped away at them. Brutally bad mouthing them. Undermining them in subtle and overt ways. Attacking the softest parts of their lives until nothing of their self-esteem remained.

And when that was done? Her victim would quit. Voluntarily. And Susan wouldn’t have to deal with them ever again. Which was exactly how she liked it.

Maryann was not the first. Not by a long shot.

But she might have been the first to catch on.

One afternoon, while scrolling through Facebook, Maryann stumbled across an old photo from a company holiday party. There, in the background, was a woman wearing the same haunted, heart broken expression Maryann had seen in her own mirror.

She reached out only to be told there were others. She reached out to another. And another. Before long, a dozen women were unearthed, all with nearly identical stories. The pattern was unmistakable. And the trauma they shared bonded them instantly.

They created a group chat. Then a spreadsheet. From that a plan was born.

And that’s where Monique came in.

After hearing from Maryann about the depth of the depravity being inflicted on women in pain, she volunteered to take Susan head on. She had the right look. The right demeanor. They created the right backstory for her, which wasn’t hard because some of the elements were true. And, critically, she had no visible ties to Maryann which would have drawn suspicion from Susan.

She applied for Maryann’s soon to be vacated job, armed with a fake resume and extensive coaching on how to sweet-talk the recruiter and hiring manager. It worked.

A week later, Maryann was training her professional replacement.

Monique pretended to learn the job. But in reality, she was studying Susan. Watching her behavior. Learning her coffee order, her wardrobe, memorizing favored talking points. Observing how her posture changed based on who she was talking to. Memorizing her use of catchphrases like “misery loves company.”

It took a few weeks before Monique had her completely figured out.

Then came the cocktail invitation.

She asked Susan out for drinks after work, claiming she wanted to learn more about the company culture. At first, Susan refused. But Monique pressed on, dropping hints about how much she needed someone to talk to, someone who might understand the chaos in her personal life.

That was the bait. And Susan bit, just as her victims had predicted.

She didn’t remember much after her seventh shot of tequila.

Hours later as she regained consciousness she was instantly aware of the full fledged assault on her senses. The burning pain. The smell of the metallic burning, the whirring buzz of the tattoo gun, the sight of dripping red ink.

Her arms and legs were tied to her own living room sofa. Her vision was blurred, but she could make out the silhouette of the woman perched on top of her, focused and calm.

“You better hold still, you bloody cunt,” came the voice, tinged with a slow, deliberate venom. “Or you’ll ruin my hard work.”

Susan blinked hard, then blinked again. “Whuh, why? Why are you doing this to me?” she slurred.

Monique didn’t answer right away.

Instead, she began to list the names of the known victims.

One by one. Repeating the list from beginning to end, over and over.

Carefully. Calmly. Like reciting a poem from memory. Like counting rosary beads in a prayer.

Each name hit Susan like a blow to the chest.

She began to cry. Then sob. She shook her head weakly.

“But I was their friend! Please, please stop. You’ve got it all wrong!”

Monique didn’t raise her voice.

“Shhh. Remember. Hold still. I’m almost done. And then you won’t be able to hurt anyone ever again.”