I was eight years old when I first learned that some monsters don’t live under the bed; they sit right behind you in class, whispering just loud enough for you to hear.
Her name was Tara Benson.
Tara wasn’t the kind of b.ʌ.l.l.y who shoved you into lockers or tripped you in the hallway. That would have been too obvious. She was much smarter than that. Her w.3.a.p.o.n of choice was words, sharp, precise, and perfectly aimed. She could h.ʌ.m.i.l.i.a.t.3 you in front of a crowd while wearing the sweetest smile. Teachers adored her. Parents praised her. And my own family told me to “just ignore her.”
But ignoring Tara was like trying to ignore a mosquito buzzing right beside your ear. She never stopped.
By middle school, I had learned the art of invisibility. I ate lunch alone, buried myself in books, and avoided drawing attention whenever possible. Each school day felt like serving another sentence in a prison I hadn’t earned. The day I graduated, I didn’t feel joy; I felt a sense of escape.
I moved two states away for college and built a quiet, happy life. I earned my degree, found a job I loved in publishing, and surrounded myself with people who saw me for who I really was. For years, Tara Benson existed only as a distant shadow from a painful past I never revisited.
Until one evening, my brother called.
“Hey, guess what?” he said, his voice bright and buzzing through the phone. “I’m engaged!”
I sat up on my couch, smiling. “That’s amazing! Who’s the lucky girl?”
There was a pause, a split second too long. My stomach sank even before he answered.
“Tara,” he said. “Tara Benson.”
The world seemed to be still for a moment. “Wait,” I said slowly. “As in… Tara from high school?”
“Yeah,” he said, his tone full of pride. “You know her! We met a couple of years ago through mutual friends. She’s amazing, funny, kind, thoughtful—”
I couldn’t listen anymore. My pulse pounded in my ears. “She b.u.l.l.i.3.d me,” I said flatly. “For years.”
Silence crackled on the line.
He finally sighed. “Come on, Sarah. That was a long time ago. You were kids. People grow up, they change.”
I closed my eyes. Do they?
“Look,” he said more gently, “I really want you to come to the engagement party. It would mean the world to me.”
I should have said no. Every fiber of me wanted to. But against my better judgment, I agreed. I told myself I was an adult now. That I was over it. That people really did change.
I repeated those words like a mantra the night of the engagement party, though deep down I knew I was lying to myself.
The restaurant was a high-end establishment downtown, with warm lighting, crystal glasses, and polished smiles everywhere. My brother, Jason, spotted me first and rushed over, pulling me into a hug.
“You made it!” he said, genuinely happy.
“Of course,” I managed, though my stomach was in knots.
And then I saw her.
Tara stood by the bar, radiant in a champagne-colored dress, holding a glass delicately between manicured fingers. Her hair was perfect, her posture impeccable, and her smile the same smile I’d seen so many times in the past stretched across her face when our eyes met.
“Well,” she said, her tone light, almost teasing, “you actually showed up.”
Her words floated through the air like perfume, pleasant but laced with poison.
“I did,” I said evenly.
She gave me a slow once-over, that same superior gleam in her eyes. “You always did surprise me.”
I forced a polite smile and walked past her, pretending not to hear the soft, amused breath she let out, the one that used to make me crumble as a kid.
But I wasn’t that girl anymore.
Unfortunately, Tara hadn’t changed a bit.
She had mastered the art of the insult disguised as kindness.
“I love that you still wear your hair the same way from high school,” she chirped later that evening. “Not everyone can pull off nostalgia.”
Or, “I heard you’re still single! That must be so liberating, no one to answer to.”
Each jab was wrapped in sugar and delivered with a smile so sweet it could rot teeth. If I reacted, she’d just tilt her head and act confused, as though I were the one with the problem.
At one point, while people laughed and mingled around us, she leaned closer. “Still the same little nobody,” she whispered, her breath brushing my ear. “It’s almost cute.”
I clenched my jaw. I wasn’t the timid girl who used to cry in the school bathroom anymore. I was an adult, and I wasn’t going to let her win this time.
That night, lying in bed, I replayed every cruel thing Tara had ever said, every h.ʌ.m.i.l.i.a.t.i.o.n she’d orchestrated. And then I remembered something she probably assumed everyone had forgotten.
It was the freshman year of high school. Our biology teacher had brought in live butterflies for a lesson on metamorphosis. Everyone leaned in, fascinated by the delicate wings fluttering inside the enclosure. But when the lid was lifted, Tara let out a bloodcurdling scream.
At first, we thought she was being dramatic, but her panic was real. She bolted from the room, shaking so badly she had to be escorted to the nurse.
That was the day we all learned that Tara Benson had an intense, irrational fear of butterflies.
And some fears don’t fade with time.
By morning, I had a plan. A perfect one.
I discovered a local company that specializes in providing live butterflies for weddings and memorials. They came packaged in an elegant, ribbon-wrapped box, designed to create a magical release when opened. It was poetic, really something beautiful that would terrify her to her core.
I ordered two hundred butterflies to be delivered to Jason and Tara’s house the night they returned from their wedding. I paid extra for a delivery assistant to insist the box be opened indoors — “to protect them from the wind,” of course.
And just to make sure everything went according to plan, I arranged for the handler to record the entire thing on video.
The wedding itself was exactly what I expected, extravagant and self-centered, with Tara glowing in the center of it all. Every moment seemed designed to showcase her perfection.
When she spotted me, she flashed that camera-ready smile. “You came!” she exclaimed, feigning warmth. “I was so sure you’d find an excuse to skip.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I replied smoothly, sipping my champagne.
She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “You always were stubborn. It’s almost endearing.”
I gave her a serene smile. “And you always did love an audience.”
Her eyes flickered, just briefly. A crack in the perfect mask.
Later, near the end of the night, as the music quieted and people began to gather for speeches, Tara decided to strike again.
“So,” she said loudly, flashing her dazzling smile for everyone to see, “I noticed there’s no gift from you, Sarah. You didn’t forget the bride, did you?”
A few people turned to look at me. I smiled, meeting her gaze calmly.
“Oh, I didn’t forget,” I said, my voice light. “I got you something special. It’s already waiting for you at home.”
Her eyes sparkled with curiosity. “Really? What is it?”
I leaned in slightly. “Something you’ll never forget.”
She laughed softly, clearly pleased with herself, assuming she’d gotten under my skin.
But the satisfaction would come later — and it would be all mine.
Two nights later, Tara and Jason returned from their honeymoon weekend. On their front porch sat a large, beautifully wrapped box with a card that read, “A symbol of transformation and love. Open indoors for best effect. —S.”
A middle-aged woman stood nearby, smiling kindly. “I was asked to deliver this personally,” she said. “They’re delicate creatures, so it’s best if you open it inside.”
Jason carried the box into the living room while Tara practically bounced with excitement, still wearing her “Just Married” sweatshirt.
The handler subtly began recording on her phone.
Tara knelt beside the box and carefully untied the ribbon. The lid lifted — and in an instant, two hundred butterflies burst into the air in a flurry of color and motion.
For one breathless second, she stared — frozen, uncomprehending. Then came the scream.
It was primal.
She stumbled backward, flailing her arms, knocking over a vase. The butterflies fluttered harmlessly around her, but she shrieked as though they were attacking. Her face turned pale, her voice breaking as she gasped for air.
Jason rushed to her side, shouting her name, trying to calm her down, but she collapsed onto the couch, sobbing uncontrollably. The butterflies, now harmlessly resting on curtains and lampshades, filled the room like living confetti.
The handler captured everything — Tara’s hysteria, Jason’s panic, and the surreal beauty of the scene.
By morning, my phone was ringing.
The second I answered, Jason’s voice exploded through the line.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he shouted. “You traumatized my wife!”
I yawned, pretending to sound casual. “Oh, now she’s traumatized? That’s rich.”
“This isn’t funny!” he snapped. “She had a breakdown! She screamed until she lost her voice! You have no idea how long it took to calm her down—”
I cut him off, my tone cool and steady. “And how many nights do you think I cried in high school, Jason? How many mornings did I wake up sick to my stomach because of her? How long did it take me to ‘calm down’ after she broke me, year after year?”
He hesitated. “That was a long time ago,” he said weakly. “You need to let it go.”
I smiled bitterly. “I did. Until she reminded me I hadn’t.”
He went silent.
“Oh, and by the way,” I added lightly, twirling my phone between my fingers, “the whole thing’s on video. Her screaming, crying, running from a few butterflies. It’s… quite a sight. People love wedding videos, don’t they?”
His breath caught. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
I hung up before he could respond.
That was the last time I ever heard from Tara. She blocked me on every platform within a day, and Jason stopped calling not long after. Maybe he finally saw her for who she really was. Or maybe he chose not to.
Either way, I slept better than I had in years.
Not because I got revenge, exactly — but because for once, the person who made me feel powerless finally knew what it was like to lose control.
Some scars don’t fade. But sometimes, reminding someone of the pain they caused is the only way to finally let it go.
And that, I suppose, was my real wedding gift to her.
