The first time I heard the story was from my high school English teacher, who was discussing the virtues of vengeance through art. I thought it stupid of Michelangelo to give his enemy a stage—a very beautiful, famous stage for the rest of eternity. Wouldn’t it be better to ignore such a man, let him fall from history as a weak nothing who failed in his quest to shut down the painting of the Sistine Chapel? I said so to my teacher, who laughed at me, and then urged me to find Biagio in the fresco and then tell her what I thought. I went straightaway to the library after school, and in a dusty corner, I poured over the glossy pictures searching for the depiction of Biagio. I found him and laughed so hard the librarian shushed me. Painted as Minos, the mythological king of Hell, Michelangelo had given Biagio donkey ears and wrapped a snake around his torso. The best part: the snake was biting his limp little penis. I thought of the thousands of people who made the pilgrimage to see the Sistine Chapel each year, all of them seeing the enemy of an artist painted into one of the most famous frescos in the world. Painted naked as dumbass. I could see why the Terrible One chose a different form of revenge. Something more lasting than a black eye, yes? I can make you a part of something great and beautiful and still portray you as the ugly thing you are.
I rested the pads of my fingers on the keyboard, my mind surging ahead and already composing sentences. This is what I’d been planning since the beginning. Maybe not quite like this. But since the moment I’d seen the hidden things in Fig Coxbury’s eyes, I knew there was a story there. She was a chaotic darkness who dressed up as the light. A deceiver. It had backfired, all right. I’d watched her try to destroy my life, but it wouldn’t be for naught. I would write it, the whole story as it happened—Fig, Darius, George … even Ryan. No one would believe it really happened because it was too fucking looney to be real life. I could already see the reviews, reams of people complaining about how farfetched Fig was. I laughed out loud. There would be the obvious comparison to the classic movie, Single White Female. Stuff like that didn’t just happen in movies, it happened to me, and to Mercy. It happened, and it broke my heart. I needed to tell the world about Fig. Fig and her empty, jealous heart. Fig, always the victim even when she betrayed you. Fig, who hurt people because she hated herself so very much. And what would I name myself, the writer? The girl who loved both a psychopath and a sociopath? I’d always liked the name Tarryn…