Acting

The girl looked in the mirror, adjusting the mask that covered the lower half of her face. It was turned up in a bright, cheerful smile. It helped hide all the pain on the inside. Is it good enough? It wouldn’t do to have anyone prying into her past. Not today.

She brushed the mask over with makeup, matching it to the rest of her face, adding in a few beautiful details. Just to make them like me.

The girl turned away from the bathroom mirror, satisfied that nobody would find out.

She tugged her sweatshirt sleeves down, covering all of the many, ugly scars on her arms. Hiding the rope burns underneath her bracelets. Hiding where her ribs stuck out from lack of food with special pads in her clothes.

She picked up her backpack, barely able to carry it because of its weight. It held so much baggage. It held everything. To lose it would ruin everything. So she would keep it with her.

The girl struggled down the front steps of the decrepit old house. She turned the street corner and started walking, shoulders hunched against the cold wind.

She walked that way until about a block away from the building. Stopping there, she stepped behind a tree, pulling out a tiny mirror and checking that everything was in place. Good… it’s all good. She snapped the case shut, put it away and finished her walk, one hand resting comfortably on the gun inside her coat.

She ducked through the doors, walking down the hallway, a spring in her step and a smile on her face while, on the inside, her gut roiled with hatred.

Hatred of herself, and everyone else. It was a swirling pit of darkness, cruel and twisted. But that was her. That was who she was. It was the most important part of her.

She stopped at her locker, hand tightening on the gun in her jacket, fingers caressing the smooth, worn rubber. This wasn’t their first rodeo. They had killed before. It was easy. Ready? She asked the gun, not expecting a response, but asking anyway.

She looked up and down the hallway, verifying that there were plenty of students. Targets. She corrected herself. That's all they are now. Targets.

She would have to be quick. She would have to kill as many as she could before killing herself.

All in one fluid motion, she yanked the gun out of her jacket and opened fire, tuning the screams out as blood sprayed the once white hallway.

                                                                                                               . . .

“Motivation?” The news reporter said to the camera. “The police were unable to find any. The murderer was the person the surviving students always saw as the smiling, happy, calm and respectful type. When trying to dig into her past, we couldn’t find anything except a few forged birth certificates. No family, no relatives, no caretakers. Just empty record after empty record.

The murderer is now dead. She reportedly turned the gun on herself after killing and wounding a total of 35 students. Please be supportive of the families and friends of those lost, and together, we will stand through this tragedy as a community.”

The broadcast ended and the screen went black. The girl stood up and left the room.

It was time to move to a new city.

~ Stick 3-24-24