Center of Heaven

By Audrey Maize

Terrence Stephenson, town superstar and well known womanizer, is shot and killed in a pep-rally, in front of everyone. Though Terrence was a town hero, he was a chauvinist with a cocky demeanor so his case slowly dwindles. Two students within the school, one named Troy and another named Stacy, refuse to give up and they go on different paths to find the murderer of their hero. Stacy is an heiress of a popular hotel chain, who was forced to go into the public school by her absent father. She does whatever is necessary to figure out the murderer, that and keep her father’s hotel chain intact. Troy, he aligns with a young soldier, Joan, who serves as lieutenant to a radical organization located in the outskirts of the city. From a distance, the students within her school see Joan as an object of fear. But Troy, even though he is coward, refuses to see Joan as that. As the spider web starts to thicken, what is real and what is fantasy becomes frightening as these travelers see the consequences of their fate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 22, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312291164

Book preview

Center of Heaven

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Copyright © 2014 by Audrey Maize

Dedicated to the loneliness we all feel in our crazy parallel world.

Chapter One

The high school gymnasium was a landmark within the city. It was a coliseum of physical education. It raised proudly above the pallid brick buildings within the school campus. The ancients would have marveled at the circular dome’s size, at its architectural detail. Inside cheered nearly two thousand gleeful students, despite the arena’s thick aroma of sawdust and sweat. Homemade banners sailed high, each bearing the school’s name followed by positive reassuring anecdotes and neat rows of exclamation marks. The early afternoon light reached through the high roof’s skylights. It granted its pale radiance onto the banners, the scoreboard, and the faces of the cheerful teenage students. They crowded the stands and balconies on all sides of the arena, confining the basketball court with a wall of black and gray T-shirts. There was barely enough room to breathe, let alone shout, but the students refused to bridle their enthusiasm. They howled in such an uncultured, primitive manner, chanting improvidently into the stale air. Eighteen-hundred strong, the collected body heat of the students produced enough sweat to fill a small pool. The gym floor began to tremble as the cheerleaders entered from an opened door and pranced to the center of the court in unison. The marching band then filed in from a side door near the exits. The cheerleaders flipped from one side of the basketball court to the other, clapping and shaking their hips and shimmering silver pom-poms, building human blocks and pyramids for the crowd’s pleasure. The marching band aided in the background, blowing on their horns and banging on their drums frivolously to the beat of the school’s anthem.

A platinum blonde cheerleader climbed gracefully to the top of the pyramid. This particular cheerleader had a glow to her that was unique. Filled with excitement, she screamed at the top of her lungs, Go! The crowd shouted back in a cheerful response. Her words ended with an explosion of black and silver confetti raining from the ceiling. It floated all over the gym, obscuring the shiny, wooden floor. Confetti slowly fell on everything, from the marching band’s uniforms to pearly white smiles on happy faces. The beautiful blonde said, Go! yet again, throwing up her pom-poms and kicking her long leg into the air. The students replied, howling louder, repeating the school’s name. The audience repeated the mantra again and again, chanting simultaneously. The cheerleader replied in delight as her fellow cheerleaders gently brought her down.

The marching band continued to play an upbeat rhythm as the cheerleaders skipped off the gym floor. The basketball court was empty of footsteps; now there was nothing but pools of confetti. The school janitor entered into the arena to sweep the floor. While he was sweeping, a big black bug ran into the auditorium as if the broom missed it. The beady bug began jumping and dancing up and down as it approached the cheerful students. They were not at all intimidated by this man-sized insect. They continued cheering. For some reason, the students worshipped this disgusting, parasitic vermin as a mascot—but why? It was deemed illogical for filth to be acknowledged, but nevertheless, that logic did not stop them from their merriment.

Standing in the western side of the bleachers was a thin student with brown hair and lengthy arms. He was cheering with the rest of the students, trying as hard as he could not to be bombarded by the excitement of his neighbors. He ducked and dodged from the uncaring arms that lightly whapped his face. He tried to join in and blend with his savage schoolmates; unfortunately, it was a waste of time. One could see how particularly different this student was. Normally he was a whiny, condescending little twit, but today he was different. His clothes were casual—a white undershirt underneath an opened black and gray plaid shirt, dirty running shoes and light blue jeans. His effort to motivate himself was discouraging in lieu of the students, yet his smile lit up the auditorium as if he had been holding it in the entire semester—the entire four years. His innocence and dedication showed only in his expression, one that resonated outside of their small rural community. Every time they cheered, he cheered. Every time he cheered, they cheered. For once, they had become one. The young student’s name was Troy Blackman.

After the confetti was removed from the auditorium floor, a large platform with a set of stairs rolled in. The cheerleaders entered alongside, skipping to their chairs on the sidelines. The wheels of the platform generated a tiny screeching noise as it rolled gently against the smooth court floor. Some of the students halted their cheers when they heard it. The bug mascot shuffled from Troy’s side of the bleachers to entertain the opposite side of the arena. The band stopped its festive music and began playing a slower, more commemorative song. The sliver horns blew a tune of triumph, and the bug mascot stepped back to the sidelines to pick up large blowout cards off the gym floor. It swiveled the prompt cards around in a circle so that every student in the auditorium could see it. The students sang along:

We will win! We will win! We will beat the Raidens—we will win!

They will lose! They will lose! We will get another trophy for our school!

Like a bunch of drunken sailors, they swayed and chanted their song of egocentricity repeatedly until the rolling platform and stairs were locked in place at the center of the court.

A gentleman in a gray suit and black tie entered the stage. Microphone in hand, he walked into the arena in a confident manner and with a big smile on his face. Waving at the cheering students, the gentleman stepped one foot in front of another, until he was at the center of the platform. Once he had arrived, the band stopped playing, and the arena fell silent. The bug mascot scurried away with its cards. The excited students were now focused, listening. The gentleman put the microphone to his mouth.

Dustmites! his voice echoed through the loud speakers, May I, please have you attention!

The large speakers reverberated hollowly through the arena’s rafters. Not a whisper came from the students. None spoke except for the basketball team sitting next to the cheerleaders on the floor seats. The gentleman noticed this and cleared his throat, clearly indicating for the chatty basketball players to listen. The basketball team quieted when they heard his reaction; one did so rolling his eyes, but became quiet.

Welcome to the Dustmite Valley High pep rally! exclaimed the gentleman.

The students cheered for a few moments, until the gentleman quieted them down and continued.

I, Principal McGiggins, would like to first thank all the dedicated individuals who made this event possible: our teachers, secretaries, and the Senior Pep Rally Club members, and our Yearbook Club. All of this couldn’t have been possible without you!

The students applauded for the teachers, assistants, and club members, who all replied by blushing. They all were near the exit behind the marching band. When the students stopped, the principal continued, I would also like to thank our star basketball players, The Fighting Dustmites, for all the hard work they have put in for this season. Because of them we have been number one at State for the past three years in a row!

The students began clapping and cheering once again. The basketball players waved, nodding their heads in a sign of arrogance.

But now we have a new foe, Dustmites—one that is trying to stop us from going to State. Are we going to let them win?!

No! screamed the students in unison.

What are we going to do, Dustmites?

Fight! Fight! Fight Mites Fight!

Once the cheering died down, the principal continued, pointing his finger at his basketball team. Now, you have all done a good job, fighting together as a team, he said. But one player has stood above the rest. His commitment and dedication to this great sport of basketball is the reason we are here, celebrating today. Everyone, please give a warm round of applause for our three-time Most Valuable Player—Terrence Stephenson!

The intensity of the students’ uproars reached a critical level as Terrence, in his black and gray warm-up suit, leaped from off his metal chair and waved to all his adoring fans.

Terrence Stephenson was popular, good looking, a senior, and captain of the Dustmite Valley High basketball team. He had shabby black hair, marbled textured brown eyes, and light-tan skin. Terrence was a jock with a carefree attitude. To him, life was all about basketball; both men and women were just objects to his ego, a means to an end. Especially the women, they were the worst to feel his conceit. But to the people of this small, imperceptible city, Terrence was their life. Especially Troy Blackman. Terrence was Troy’s hero. His arrogance complemented his cocky manner as he strolled up to the center of the platform. He leaped up the tall central platform rather than taking the stairs. He pointed and winked to every student as if he were a celebrity. He raised his hands as if he were to be inducted into the hall of fame. His presence made everybody smile, especially the cheerleaders—especially the head cheerleader.

I’ll take it from here, said Terrence to the principal.

He rudely snatched the microphone out of the principal’s hands. The principal looked at him in anger. But Terrence ignored his feelings. The head cheerleader loved it, she replied by deeply biting into her cherry lips with anxious desire.

How ya’ll doin’ Dustmite Valley High! Terrence screamed against the microphone to his audience.

The students howled in reply.

Awesome! exclaimed an ecstatic Terrence. First, I wanna thank my mom. And I wanna thank the mothers of the Raidens for raising such failures! Hey, somebody’s got to plunge the poop out of the toilet, and it sure as hell ain’t gonna be me!

The students agreed, laughing intermittently at his humor. The principal tapped Terrence on his shoulder to remind him that they were at a public convention. Terrence shrugged it off and walked to the other side of the platform to continue his speech unimpeded. A king was this basketball star, king to his court of subjects.

We are gonna mop them up so bad, they won’t even need to break out the buffer! Just like last year and the year before. These clowns just can’t take a hint, can they?!

The rambunctious students laughed as the principal followed Terrence around the platform, now trying to get at the microphone. Nevertheless, Terrence’s words continued to spiral downwards to the offensive, as his speech turned into consequential banter.

I would also like to thank my deadbeat dad, and my future shoe deal, and my teammates who are good—but obviously not as good as me ‘cause they’re not on this stage! Hey, don’t take it personally, we can’t all be awesome!

The students laughed louder. His humiliated teammates looked at him with a burning hatred. Terrence continued.

…And we can’t forget the hottest, smartest chick in the freaking planet! I wouldn’t be anywhere without her and her quote-unquote, charitable donations. Well I would, ‘cause I’m so damn awesome, duh, but it wouldn’t be as much fun. And it probably wouldn’t include a Ferrari. Anyways…Stacy, why don’t you stand up and take a bow!

As soon as Terrence said her name, the crowd ceased their cheering. The tall, platinum-haired cheerleader rose from her chair, biting into her lip as though the fans’ silence were her aphrodisiac. As she rose, her hair bounced with her. It was smooth, yet wild, blown and flowing free like a lioness. The ends concluded in wide whorls, draping all over her chest and shoulders thickly. Most of the lightweight strands blew amongst the moist air of the arena and dropped like a kinetic spring across her agile back. Her curls were cute, childlike in nature. Her bangs softly brazed atop one side of her beautiful forehead, poking out ever so slightly. And her scent, even her hair, how it smelled like the fanciest of international shampoos; it made any indigent feel like a king.

"Bonjour, my Terrence! Bonjour my worthless, meaningless, peasants!" yelled a waving, ecstatic Stacy. She tilted her head, expanding her vast upper body toward the superstar’s direction.

Stacy Carmine had a high-pitched voice that screeched and attracted everyone’s attention, like a pair of cymbals sharply clashing. She moved like an exercise instructor when she was ecstatic. It made students sick when she’d move so fast. Even now with the perspiration from her routine melting across her beautiful face, she was still the epitome of beauty. No one in the school, nay the city—her city, was more gorgeous than her. It was terrifying how she could look this beautiful every single day. How Stacy Carmine, so young, had achieved such grace that not even a goddess could attain. Scarier more, nothing on this sixteen year-old looked real. There were no nerve endings on her perky pumped chest, or her perfect button nose. Not even her painted smile. The students would call Stacy Carmine a plastic doll, a child of wax. If she were poked to death she would not flinch, if she were squeezed to death, she would not scream in pain. She would keep smiling. She would always keep smiling.

Oh. My. God! she screeched in her posh tone. You seriously have to stop this, Terrence! Seriously…!

Stacy’s creamy body was wrapped into a shrink-tight black and gray cheerleader uniform—way tighter than her subordinates. The stencil white letters of the school’s name stretched out of proportion, the syllables rippled out to the edges. Even if it did violate the conformity of the public school, she could afford to be rebellious. Squeezing her massive chest together, she continued vigorously in her childish tone.

…Your assertiveness makes me so moist, really it does! You know it was nothing, the car. It is just money; I spend it all the time. I would gladly give you anything for your happiness, baby. Anything. Anything you’d ever dream of… anything…Let’s take over the world…

Most of the faculty coughed heavily at Stacy’s dark response. Everyone else glared at her wide, smiling plastic face in anger. In silence.

Stacy Carmine, everybody…! said Terrence.

Terrence attempted to break the awkward silence, but he couldn’t erase the effect that Stacy had just created. Unfortunately, he was interrupted; Stacy turned around, closed her eyes, and brushed back her beautiful hair. She then proceeded to ramble on, claiming both intellectual and financial superiority over her public school colleagues. Obviously she was a product of a private school, for only a private school would subliminally preach supremacy and allow their students to regurgitate the same. Stacy commenced,

…The only thing that would make me more aroused than seeing my Terrence rip the heads of our opponents—for the third year in a row—is to see him hop into a matching red sports car that I bought him! Which I did, duh! Because I’m rich, duh! Plus, social demi-god, head cheerleader, and, if I may add, the most beautiful young woman on the face of this planet! I have blessed this impoverished little school so well.

The students were still silent. Stacy jumped up into the air and hurled her pom-poms into the sky.

Go Trash-Mites! she said.

As her pom-poms dropped onto the court floor, she replied with conceited eyes and a dual set of middle fingers to all the students in the audience. Her cheer mates shook their heads in pity towards the heiress. They didn’t know whether she was congratulating them or insulting them until they clearly saw the fingers in their faces. Stacy’s emotions were just as predictable as her character. And her character was as predictable as the makeup on her face, which looked as if she were trying to hide her imaginary flaws from the outside world. This public school had contaminated the heiress. She had been forced to blend in with these gorillas. Once a sophisticate, she was now reduced to a level of sociopaths. She was becoming one of them, and hated these students for what they had turned her into. It never made sense why the young heiress had been trapped in this institution for the past two years; it never made any sense. Terrence looked at her mystified, puzzled.

Well…There she is folks. In her purest form, said Terrence, scratching his head. I could have sworn I asked you to just take a bow, not give your whole life story—but whatever. I guess only you can turn something awkward and embarrassing and make it beautiful.

Stacy kicked her long leg up in glee, sitting back down and batting her long, smoky eyelashes at her most beloved. She snapped her fancy fingers and was handed a nail file to perfect her already perfect red nails. Terrence continued.

Speaking of awkward, I also want to thank girlfriend number two for when Stacy gets all creepy and awkward, like right now, for example. I won’t forget you in my memoirs, number two!

While winking, Terrence pointed his finger gunslinger style to the cheerleader sitting right next to Stacy. The crowd laughed like hyenas. Stacy was enraged. They were laughing because the competing cheerleader did not look the same as Stacy. She had a petite frame, hand-bleached hair, and wasn’t as attractive. Obviously, she was a product of this public school. Stacy crossed her arms and pouted in embarrassment. The neighboring cheerleader was exuberant, and raised her hand in excitement to receive some form of attention. Who wouldn’t want to be honorable mention from a champion like Terrence, even if it were for the wrong reasons? Stacy grew furious towards, not at Terrence, but at her own teammate, grinding the file intensely against her pinky nail, until it was nothing but red dust.

Raise that hand any higher and I will dedicate a museum to your funeral, skank! she blurted.

The girl placed her arm down, along with her head, and wept. Stacy smiled wide once she saw the tears and went back to filing her next finger.

Terrence continued his ranting. His body was intoxicated with the attention.

…And girlfriend number three, and girlfriend number four…! Just remember when you ladies spread your legs you spread your legs for a piece of history!

The students started laughing again. It was an ugly laugh. Even an oblivious Stacy Carmine began to chuckle. The principal, however, was not amused. He ran towards the boy to gain control.

Okay, Terrence, that will be all—thanks, stammered the principal, as he attempted to relieve the microphone from the superstar’s hand.

The childish game of tug of war was hard on the principal. For Terrence it was nothing. He pulled back slightly against the straining principal.

Hey, McGiggins! What are you doing? he asked. I’m not done yet!

Thank you for your encouraging words of wisdom—Terrence. If you could please—have your seat, we can continue…

The two pulled back and forth, forcing one another to release the microphone from each other’s hand. The students did not support the principal; they were firmly on Terrence’s side. The principal began struggling even more as his shiny black shoes slid against the smooth platform. The flimsy platform rocked and squeaked with every tug. Terrence had the upper hand, as he was wearing his fancy designer basketball sneakers that gripped against the platform floor. Plus, his athletic build gave him a greater advantage. Once Terrence saw that he had a lead, it bored him. He released the microphone, followed by a yawn gesture. The principal sprung back, flat onto the side of the platform, almost falling onto the gym floor. Terrence only replied with a smug grin of triumph.

You know what?! You bore the king. Go fetch me some wine!

The students cheered and laughed louder as a response. This pep rally was getting out of control. Teachers and faculty tried to push against a heavy packed crowd of students to get to the podium. They failed as the students grew rowdier, pushing against them, halting them from taking a further step. Terrence walked towards the edge of the podium, eyes closed, raising both his hands up to his beloved. The students cheered even louder. Stacy cheered louder. Troy cheered louder. The city cheered louder.

A microphone?! Do I need a microphone folks!?

No! shouted the students.

Because who is the superstar?!

You are! shouted the students.

Everyone’s eyes were closed as they continued reveling in their excitement. Eyes blocked from the bright sunlight, blocked from the ceiling shining on their smiling faces. The sea of students’ happiness expanded as if their faces were made of helium, being pumped again and again their beaming heads growing larger and larger. They could not envision their excitement, they could only feel it radiate through their bodies. They did not see the eagerness that floated upon the superstar’s forehead—only a prayer to wait, with no need for the dire consequences.

Who’s the main attraction?!

You are! screamed his students.

Who’s the most important! screamed their idol.

You are! screamed his audience, his court, his reason for living.

Who are we gonna beat?! screamed their inspiration.

Beat the Raidens, kill the Raidens, kill kill kill!

Hell—

A deafening shot rang out over the frenzied crowd, instantly quieting them in one fell swoop. They then heard the sickening sound of a solid thump. A sound no man, no woman ever wanted to hear. It hideously echoed throughout the auditorium. It would pulsate inside the crowd’s mind like an awakened nightmare. There was no way out.  

Stacy, the first to open her eyes, let out a horrific scream. The students, band leaders, teachers and cheerleaders, heard the scream. It was bloodcurdling, ear shattering; it now gurgled out hot air as she was drowning from the depths of her throat. The crowd opened their eyes. They had no time to gasp. They saw Terrence. They saw their hero. The one they loved. The one they worshipped year after year. They saw him flat on his back on the podium. His face crushed inward. Blood was seeping from his curly hair to his strong neck, and down to the collars of his warm-up jacket. No movement, no flopping of the feet, no last gasps of air. Dead.

Troy was dizzy when he opened his eyes. His entire body grew numb when he saw his hero’s mangled body atop the podium. The students were dissimilar. They jumped out of their bleachers, running in a panic around the entire auditorium. They bounced against one another violently, tripping and falling on their faces, crawling away from the horror, shielding their eyes from the shrinking claustrophobia that was their beautiful circus. The only man who could possibly bring about some sense of order was petrified: with microphone still in hand, the principal could not move from his downed position. He was face to face with the carnage. Terrence’s blood slowly drained from his body towards his shiny black shoes. Stacy jumped up, climbed onto the podium, using her tears to nurse her decapitated lover.

No, Terrence— No! she cried, shaking the blood-shattered corpse. You’re all right, right baby? You’re okay…you’re okay. It’s just a little flesh wound, you’ll be all right. Don’t worry, Stacy will take care of you. Stacy will make you all better. Okay? Baby? Why aren’t you answering me? Baby?!

Stacy’s vigorous shaking of Terrence’s limp frame did nothing but splatter his blood onto her uniform.

Answer me?! Her sympathy depleted. She screamed deeper shaking him harder. Answer me!

Stacy grabbed Terrence’s deformed face, manipulating its loose flesh with the tips of her fingers. Molding it together like day-old clay. Her sharp, red fingernails were a jumbled mess as she frantically dug out the pieces of ammunition from his forehead, ripping his skin even more. His red, soupy entrails slipped even more through her hands. She did not stop; she pieced bone fragment together and stuffed flesh into cavernous pockets like a psychotic doctor, crying heavily while doing so. Her black tears smudged against her heavy makeup, draining in droves down to the gaping hole on his face. Her heavy, red lipstick, her bold, blue smoky mascara, her thick black eye-lashes, all now swirled in the cranberry river that seeped in the crevices of the podiums’ wooden paneling. Panicked, screaming, nervous, students and teachers started throwing up at the horrendous sight. Others fainted, dropping one at a time. The few who did not faint were desperately trying to escape, pushing and stomping like a stampede, tripping over bleachers, rolling over unconscious students now smothered in bile. Those who did escape from the chaos were still trapped in the arena—they banged and cried against the locked exit, clawing at the steel doors to be let out. The more they fought, however, the more panic they induced, rippling through the crowd. There was no hope the students.

In the midst of all the chaos, however, a quiet sound was heard by some students, prompting them to turn their heads toward the top of the bleachers. The tiny sound bounced off the hollow walls, and as more and more students quieted, the sound grew louder and more insulting.

It sounded like…laughter.

The students all stopped in their panic, turned, and saw her. All by herself, at the top edge of the bleachers, on the other side of the auditorium, sat a young girl. She was not much younger than Troy. And she was now laughing whole-heartedly, at full blast despite the sight of blood and the guts. The girl laughed so hard that she began to tear into hysteria. The students did not find it funny. Not at all. 

How are you going to kill without your prized pig now, Dustmites? the girl asked her angered students. How are you going to fight without a symbol of your filth? I guess you are just going to have to learn to die alone with the rest of us…

The amused girl was terrifying to look at; so very terrifying. She was ghastly thin; her bones poked and jutted through her translucent skin. Her pupils were pitch black, like two voids, and unusually wide. Her lipstick—black—matched her nails. Her hair was a mess—a raven-haired, chaotic mess—short, layered, masculine. The top was its thickest, thick enough to grab. The left edge parted what it could to the right, and her bangs poured down to her forehead, most of the strands cutting into her eyesight. Her sides and back inside were the thinnest—as thin as a military taper. A majority of her hair splayed outwards in a gel-spiked flurry against her skull’s back and right side. The left side was bald from the edge down; it was shaved in an arc, leaving more than enough room for her cigarette. A single black bracelet of leather and chains orbited one of her lanky wrists. Every once in a while she would shake her wrist, making the chains sound as dreadful as a handful of teeth in a metal box. Her thick black t-shirt was crumpled and spotted; completely uncivilized. Looking more like a tank top, it revealed a great portion of her neckline and all of her arms, with torn-out sleeves and an overstretched collar. Though only a slither of her midsection was visible, the shirt was tucked under a demonic belt studded with silver square bullets wrapped around her waist. The jeans themselves were skinny and black, heavily torn from the thigh downward, with the left tears hiked greater than on the right. The tears squeezed tightly to her thighs like spandex, revealing a great portion of her bone-white legs to the students. Attached to the back of her shimmering, studded belt was a holster for a black pocket knife—three inches of trepidation that was snuck quietly into the school. Her shiny black boots were almost as intimidating, military combat issue, wrapped in thick silver spikes, linking chains and metal skulls. It distracted the outfit, making it less trendy and more radical. She wore several piercings on her ears but naked to any earrings or gauges around that area. She had a single, visible mark—a large, pitch-black tattoo that burned into her upper right arm. The female symbol for identification, a bordered circle above a cross, whose arms were positioned lower than that of the recognizable symbol. In the middle of the circle sat a black skull with mean eyes and a nose which looked more like an upside-down heart rather than fragment of bone. The young lady’s legal name was Melissa-Ann Kotz, but to the students, to the faculty, and to all other individuals that feared her, she was called Joan. 

Joan’s dark cackle continued to ring over the silent crowd. Troy knew she enjoyed death, delighted in the macabre, like a lot of the Goth kids at the school. But to see her laughing now, after such a horrific event, Troy was convinced that Joan wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t just show.

Joan pointed at the lump of flesh on the podium, and Troy shook his head pitiably. The first time he met her was in freshman chemistry, when they were assigned as lab partners. He remembered how innocent she had been back then. She had long, beautiful blonde hair and hazel-brown eyes. As the years went by she had slowly descended into madness, as if someone had pulled out her soul piece by piece, year by year. He remembered a week ago in biology when Joan cut the head off a fetal pig with her knife. She shoved it on an iron stake and called it the alpha male. This terrified Troy so much that he asked his teacher if he could switch partners. And, now, here she was, doing it again, laughing at a gruesome scene.

Troy cleared his throat