Spastic Spontaneous Stories of the Short Kind

STORY FOUR - When I Saw Her @_MeltingSnowflakes_

The first time I saw her for what she really was, it was as she clamped her long, wiry teeth around my best friend's neck. It was as my best friend let out a howling scream interwoven with a gurgling choke as blood pooled inside her throat, coated her lungs, drowned her. And then her eyes dulled, her body going slack inside its bloody jaws. And that was the day that something inside me changed, forever. That was the day that I would set out to destroy my eighth grade English teacher.

***

I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm not crazy.

I can see her from my hiding place. Faded, chocolate brown hair swept up in a loose bun, greying wisps brushing against her cheeks. She stands over a stove, a wooden spoon clasped in her hand, stirring a soup of some kind. She is alone, not another soul in her house. I've been watching her for hours and nothing. Nothing. Nobody entering or exiting, nobody so much as knocking on the door. I can see a fire crackling in another room, a painting distorted by distance hung above the mantle.

I have to move soon. I have to do it soon.

***

That day began as any other day is expected to. With me, blankets strewn over my body, refusing to crawl from my bed. My mother's angry voice cutting through my drowsiness and, eventually, me trudging through the school gates, hair tied up like I couldn't care less and clothing hanging over my bony figure.

And Amanda. As she always was. There. Waiting for me, curls of strawberry blonde hair pulled up like she did care, clothes picked carefully from an overflowing wardrobe, effort painted in her face in curls of elegant makeup. She didn't deserve it. I did. I deserved it far more than she ever would. She was, overall, a better person than I was; ever would be. She was the type who donated money to homeless shelters and rescued stray puppies for fun.

I was never like her. I never would be. And her demise meant I would never have the chance.

The first classes swept by, never anymore or any less painful than they usually were. Maths passed, then art and then we spilled out into break. And that was normal. That was fine. And we gathered, rejoiced that we shared one class; our English class. And for one of the last times in my life, I smiled.

And then we entered the classroom, unaware that it was all about to fall apart.

***

The grass seems sharper and more painful whipping across my ice-bitten skin. Under the cover of a smooth, mid-winter darkness I move, edging around the rays of moonlight spilling down across the street. Up her driveway, slowly, hugging close to the edges, my breaths speeding up with every passing second.

Closer. Closer. Closer.

Knife brandished, hair tied back, chest constricting, heart racing. Slowly, I twist the door handle and pull it open, the remains of the previously broken lock still evident in their bronze shards.

I'm in.

***

English passed as you would expect. It was fun and boring simultaneously and, as the teacher droned on and on and on, I found my eyes glued to the single analogue clock hung above the door. And I stared, wondering why the hands moved so slowly, counting down the minutes and then being sucked back in by a single interesting word. And then it ended, and I zoned back out, zoned away, unaware, unsuspecting.

And then came the bell. And we were excited. One more class was done, soon the day would end. Soon it would be over. Soon. Soon. Soon. Soon Amanda would be dead, drowned in her own blood. And so we made to leave, our poor oblivious selves unaware of what was lurking just around the corner, wearing the skin of our teacher. Wearing her hearty smile and friendly face. Wearing her like a mask.

"Hold up," I heard Amanda say, her hand catching my shoulder, "I'll be right back. Just give me a second."

"Yep."

And she turned, her hair swishing behind her as she disappeared into the classroom, her books deposited by my feet. And, my shoulders tired, I leaned back against a wall, my own bag by her books. And then I heard it.

The sound of skin ripping just around the corner, like someone getting sheets of skin ripped from them, like the sound of something being stretched further than it should have been. And then screaming, screaming like none I had ever heard.

"What the Hell?"

And I looked. God, I looked. And I saw it, all of it. Of Ms Claren's face changing, stretched and pointed, long, jagged teeth pointing from her mouth and Amanda making a bee-line for the door. And just as I thought she would make it, a hand struck her in the side, flinging her against a desk and then it was on top of her.

And Amanda screamed. Like no scream I had ever heard, would never hear, woven with gurgling and choking. In one, swift motion, the teeth clamped down around her and I ran. I ran. I ran until my legs gave way, tears in my eyes, throat raw from screaming. And people gathered.

And I could still her. I could still hear her echoing in my ears.

***

I'm going to kill her. I'm going to end this monstrosity or I'm going to die trying.

Maybe my parents don't know where I am, but that's OK. Maybe they'll never know where I went that night, but that's OK. Maybe they'll never know how their darling daughter died, but that's OK. As long as I bring this creature down with me.

And I am in her living room, creeping past her fire crackling in the fire place. I can feel the heat dancing in my skin, but it doesn't matter. Someone is dying tonight. And then I hear it, the gentle humming and sizzling of a stew and her gentle tune. For a minute, an image fills my mind; of her humming the same tune in class once when she didn't realise anyone was listening.

No. She must die.

And so I move again, clinging close to the shadows, disappearing around corners until I find the kitchen. And then I don't wait; I move. I charge her head on, holding the knife above my head and bringing it down hard. No training, no practise, knife on her fleshy, inhuman skin.

"Oh dear," is all she says, fingers wrapping around the knife blade, jerking it from my hand, "that's not very nice."

And then I am running, any doubt that what I saw was real evaporating. And then I am at her front door and something is pulling me back. A soft hand with a grip of iron, pulling me to the floor, monstrous mouth stretching, stretching, stretching, big enough to close around my head.
No. No. No. No, no, no. No, I'm not meant to die. I'm meant to kill the bad guy and walk away unscathed. I'm not meant to die bloody, drowning in myself. I can't. I have to avenge Amanda.

NO, YOU HAVE TO GET AWAY.

But it's too late, because her teeth are clamping down around my neck and then I am screaming myself raw, sticky blood coating my throat, air unable to get to my lungs. No. No, I cannot die. Not here, not now. I have to kill her. She has to die. That's how it's meant to happen.

SHE'S MEANT TO DIE.

Something is forming in my mind. A plan, but it's too late. Blackness is coming, swallowing my vision, and then it has. Then it's gone and I am staring into an infinite darkness, tainted only by a singular person.

"Amanda."

She smiles, weakly, lips curving.

"You made it," she breathes, moving towards me. But then she is gone, and so am I. And everything has been engulfed by the serenity of death.

A/N

Honestly it very happy with how this came out. This topic would have been so much easier to write a novel around, but this is a book of short stories, so oh well.

I'll live.

~Caitlin