She's an Agent of Chaos, I'm a Softie

c. 1: Principle Atlanta.

He was close.

  Enid felt herself in a foreign body, though the fear she felt was all the same. That same pulsating, rupturing dread that sunk every organ in her body, bringing her to her knees like a sinner begging for forgiveness. Perhaps she ‘ought to plead, but any attempts were for naught, the words she yearned to articulate caught at the back of her throat. Her thoughts were nebulous, perpetually caught in the furthest corners of her mind. The entire body of this thing she was placed into shook, seemingly sensing the same dark presence Enid did.

  She would’ve fought not to scream if it were to be any use. To not show any fear; look death in His cruel, sullen eyes. Better not to give Him the satisfaction—the thrill of the hunt. But whoever the body belonged to, they were distraught, yelling sweet nothings into the shrill man’s ears as He took pride in tearing them apart; and Enid felt all the pain in real time, she and the thing’s senses coinciding into one masochistic mess. As for the man—whatever He was—He enjoyed it, that much was clear; that much was abundantly clear.

  There was something so ironic about it; a ferocious wolf reduced to this; contorted into something else; a wounded rabbit, perhaps?

  The answer was a hot commodity that Enid did not possess. Like most mysteries, she would likely never know, the truth forever alluding her. Taunting, tormenting her, much like the sadistic man dangling death over this poor soul’s head…

---

  “Excuse me?” said someone, stirring Enid awake. In front of her stood a girl who Enid did not recognise, making her think she was likely new. Enid drew her claws away from the nearby coffee table; in her unconscious state, she had been absently carving little stars into the wood. “I’m sorry for waking you, it’s just that I’m done speaking to Principal Atlanta and I assume you were waiting to see him,” she said timidly, her voice oddly adorable.

  Enid pushed the intrusive thought to one side, stammering, “Thank you! I just had a late night last night, and—” she stopped herself, shaking her head. “Too much information, Enid…” she muttered to herself, straightening out her clothes. “Thank you. You saved me the humiliation.” The girl flashed Enid a toothy smile, one which showed her sharp fangs, and took off, leaving the werewolf to enter the office.

  The first thing that struck Enid as she entered the office was the stench. An awful, visceral scent that was akin to nicotine. Gone were the days of Weems, where a pleasant floral aroma licked the air, overwhelming you with a sense of security. A scent befitting for the woman that once resided inside. But now Weems was gone, and her replacement could not be any more foreign.

  A billow of smoke shrouded the man, wafting out of the open window he was perched on. It looked like a morbid fairy-tale—right up Wednesday’s alley, Enid supposed. The man seemed not to pick up on Enid’s presence, too caught up in his own stupor to gleam the girl’s sparkling epithet. Nonplussed, Enid cleared her throat, and the man snapped to attention, his blue eyes meeting her own; they were dead, like those taxidermized animals sold at that one creepy antique shop she and Ajax had spent Outreach Day at. Enid shivered at the memory.

  The man squinted through the smog. “Did I call you?” he asked, his voice writhe with fatigue, enough for Enid to conclude that he was an avid smoker (as if all the smoke hadn’t made that abundantly clear). “I did call for an Enid S—” he suddenly stopped, fumbling for something in his blouse pocket. He took out a pair of square glasses, putting them on to observe Enid more closely.

  “I’m…not in trouble, am I?” Enid asked shortly, put-off by the man’s erratic nature. Smoking in front of a student was one thing, but the way he managed himself was clumsy—unorganised.