When Did He Go – Part 1
Today’s story was a big part of why I have shuffled around the post schedule for The Quill.
I was asked by a friend to write a horror story for them. I’m not the greatest horror writer. Suspense and tension are acquired skills, and I haven’t spent any of the time I’ve been writing focusing on either. So when I sat down to write a story focused on horror, set within an Indigenous American story, I froze a little bit.
I care about this friend very much. They are a huge part of my life, and while they have been reading my work this whole time, at the end of the day, this is something that they’ve requested of me. When I sat down to write Sunday, I didn’t feel like I could do a good job at all, so I went ahead and took the far longer than normal intro that I had written and turned that into its own post. I’m not entirely certain that the time gained has been useful to producing a ‘better’ story, but I at least feel like I’ve put my best foot forward with part one.
Convincing myself that I’m doing a good job often leads to actually doing a good job. So I take the victories I can in that department.
When Did He Go – Part 1
“Paul?”
The question came after a slight pause, as though the voice giving it form did not actually wish to know where Paul was at all. Desiree, the young woman behind the words, most assuredly did not want to know where Paul was or what he was doing. Paul was needed for the rehearsal, however, and she’d rather eat a cactus whole than admit to Mrs. McMahon that she hadn’t at least tried to find the worm before they moved on without him.
Desiree walked into the hall outside the small auditorium where the drama club was practicing for the play next week. She sighed, seeing Paul up the darkened hallway putting on his usual song and dance.
“Come on Paul! We don’t have time for this.”
Desiree, her job done, let the door close itself as she made her way back towards the stage.
Paul had turned slightly upon hearing his name, and his lip curled as he sneered at the closing door. He didn’t care one bit about their rules and their schedules. They’d wait for him. They all waited for him. Just like the lovely young freshmen he’d been converting to his cause. He’d brought her out here, away from the prying eyes of Mrs. McMahon and Desiree. He’d wooed her as only he could: honeyed words, hints at glory and promises of things to come. She’d been charmed by him, naturally, but he didn’t care really. She was just one more piece on the chess board. One more pawn to step on so he could leave this wretched place forever.
The doors to the auditorium opened, and Paul strutted as he made his way towards the stage. He was all self-possessed swagger, assured that his plans would all come to fruition as they had always done. The young woman he had converted to his cause walked along side him, but she had a more sheepish expression on her face, burning with embarrassment at having been caught out making the others wait.
A cheer went up from Paul’s groupies, and he held up his hands and swept an enormous bow, picking up an imaginary rose as he straightened.
“Alright Captain Ham, on the stage. I know you know all your lines by heart, but everyone else needs to practice and I want to get home sometime this century.”
Mrs. McMahon’s laconic jab landed true, striking right at Paul’s ego. He barely faltered, but shot the teacher a glare before masking it with a smile.
“Of course Mrs. Mac, I don’t wish to keep you from your family.”
Mrs. Mac snorted, and turned to the script in her lap. Among all those present, it was only she and Desiree who could see the naked ambition and greed which swam beneath Paul’s surface. It irritated him, and he ground his teeth as he smiled and gained the stage.
The rehearsal went off without a hitch. Desiree did a wonderful job, and although Mrs. Mac had to help her with lines more than once, she had posture and timing to spare. Paul was perfect, remembering every line, covering for every missed step or stuttered line. He was a natural actor, and despite his personal failings it was clear he was destined for greatness upon the stage.
After another half-hour of practice, Mrs. Mac pronounced them competent enough to be getting on with. She had placed the script in her enormous tote bag, and smacked her hands together loud enough to ring off the rafters, the sure signal practice was over.
“Remember everyone, we have one more rehearsal next week the day before the show. It’s a dress rehearsal, so be sure your clothing is appropriate to withstand several costume changes. Off you go.”
Mrs. Mac shooed everyone out of the auditorium, breaking up the gaggle which had formed around Paul as the other members of the drama club surrounded him. He bent low, kissing Mrs. Mac’s hand before she had a chance to leave. She rolled her eyes and jabbed a thumb at the door.
“Let’s move it Romeo. The husband gets cranky if I’m not home in time to eat dinner with the family.”
Paul laughed, rich and warm and completely at odds with his eyes, and Mrs. Mac hitched the tote further up her shoulder and marched up and out of the auditorium. Desiree, giving Paul the same look Mrs. Mac had, trotted off to follow her and the two chatted as they made their way out of the theater.
Paul seethed, but kept it hidden underneath his smile, wearing the expression like armor. He made idle chat with the small group as they walked, but he did not dally once the order to leave had been given. It might please him to antagonize Mrs. McMahon, but at the end of the day she controlled his participation in the play. One day, however, he wouldn’t be at her mercy. As with all things in life, the timing is what mattered. Revenge would need to give way to necessity.
The sun was setting, and the red and yellow light washed over the bronzed skin of the Drama Club as they made their separate ways to the waiting vehicles at the rear of the school. Mrs. McMahon had sent out a mass text signaling to the parents that practice was over, so none of the children were forced to wait. More importantly, Mrs. Mac could get home to Mr. Mac and keep the peace.
Desiree climbed into the cab of a beat-up 79′ Chevy, and smiled at her dad. He was a spare man with a face weathered by the sun. But he wore a bright smile as Desiree settled herself onto the passenger portion of the bench and belted in.
“Have a good day Ayastigi?”
Desiree smiled as she played with the feathers that Mrs. Mac had woven into her long, dark braid.
“My day was full of victory Agidoda. I killed it on stage!” Desiree shadowboxed an imaginary opponent as she described her day to her father, leaving nothing out. He was a great audience, and asked all sorts of questions to keep Desiree talking. The drive home was nearly half an hour, but they passed the time laughing and talking, just as they always did.
To be continued…
Featherfully,
The Unsheathed Quill
