–A.D. 2011, January 10th–
Emma Barnes’ life is over.
Her life. Her whole life. Over with, and done. Even now, she can’t quite believe it. Even now, just thinking the words feels…surreal.
Even as she sits in this cold, wet, awful-smelling room, sits at an interrogation table, surrounded by blindingly all-white walls, she can’t quite believe what’s happened to her. Her body is numb. Numb, and trembling furiously. Except, of course, for her right wrist, which throbs with an agonizing pain.
Her future is disappearing before her very eyes.
She can see it, out there, in the distance she stares off into. She can see it retreating. Drawing back. Growing ever more distant, ever more miniscule, until, at last…
It vanishes entirely.
Why is she being punished?
Only the weak are punished.
And she’s not weak.
She’s not.
So, why?
How did everything go so wrong?
Emma can’t help but feel that somehow, strangely, this has all happened because of one black cat.
The one she saw a week ago.
They’d been planning this for more than a month, the three of them.
All winter break. More, even. They’d stocked up used pads and tampons from nearly half the girls in her whole year. God, she still remembered the fucking stench of them. It’d made her gag. They’d almost vomited so many times, packing the repulsive things into Hebert’s locker.
But they’d managed it.
A plan the likes of which they’d never even attempted before. She’d never even attempted, before. Moving parts, so many moving parts. Patience. Temperance. A double agent.
Even to remember what went into it now, to look back on it, it made her giddy, slightly. It was a stroke of true genius, her magnum opus. Her. Madison and Sophia helped, of course, but it was her plan, in the end.
She was the mastermind.
Sophia was strong, almost unbelievably strong, but too stupid, too short-sighted for something like this. And Madison, she was too cowardly. Much too cowardly. Why, she’d flat-out refused to take part, at first. But, eventually, she’d come around.
And, in the end, they’d done it. They’d won.
Won.
Against whom?
She did wonder, at the time. It was a brief thing, and fleeting, a momentary passing of fancy, a quivering of intent, but…there was this intensity, to it, as well. Why…why do this?
Why do this, really? Why did Hebert warrant such monumental effort from her? Why did she deserve the honor of such a masterfully-executed plan?
Who was Taylor Herbert, to her?
And then, as if heaven-sent, the answer had manifested itself in Emma’s mind.
Taylor was her past.
Her past self. The one who’d been simpering. The one who’d been pitiful. The one who’d been weak. The one who made her more nauseous even then the foul mess of things they’d shoved into Hebert’s locker.
Taylor was her past.
And for Emma to be free, to really be free, to escape, Taylor had to die.
Emma couldn’t be the one to kill her, though. No. That wouldn’t have been right. She still had a life to live, after all. She couldn’t risk going to jail. And besides, it’d have been sloppy. Reflected poorly on her. She was the mastermind. She didn’t dirty her hands with those beneath her.
No, Taylor had to take her own life.
And this would’ve been enough. Emma had felt certain of that. This would’ve been enough. Taylor would’ve been forced to endure the locker, to go through hell. She’d have survived it, just barely, she’d have taken months to recover, betrayed by the one friend she’d thought she made, but she would’ve survived. And then she’d have come back to school.
And they’d have picked right up where they’d left off.
And Taylor would’ve realized, then, that it was never going to stop. That it was never going to lessen. That it was never going to end.
And that would have been enough.
Enough to make Hebert take the only reasonable, the only rational, choice. And, in doing so, set Emma free. Or, at least, that had been the plan. Everything had been prepared. Everything had been put in place. Everything had been ready to go.
Then, the very day before they’d returned from the winter break, it happened.
Emma was walking home, her whole body buzzing in anticipation for tomorrow, little butterflies fluttering about her stomach, her mind a million miles away. She was skipping along the pavement, happy as could possibly be.
When she tripped.
Tripped on something.
And fell.
An innocuous enough set of circumstances. People tripped, and fell, every day, and came out just fine. But when she landed, landed hard, and felt that spike of pain shoot up her arm, Emma knew something was wrong.
She remembered moaning in pain, clutching her limp wrist in her hand, and turning around to locate what it was she’d tripped on. Seeing it, and almost doing a double take.
A cat.
A gorgeous cat, with a coat so dark black and glossy it looked like the midnight sky, and a single, beautiful, sea-green stripe in its fur. Looking back at her. Locking eyes with her. Something about its gaze felt…off.
Then it snuffled, licked itself, and pranced away.
Emma ran home, and got the verdict the following hour. Multiple fractures. Torn tendons. She’d fallen in almost the worst way possible. Bed rest five days, at least.
Five days.
The plan was for tomorrow. Monday. The first day back after the break. Now, she’d be bedridden until Friday, at least. A tingling ran down her spine as she processed the news.
That, too, was strange.
Strange because, really, did this change anything? The bloody, biohazardous mix had sat fermenting in Hess’s basement for almost a month, now. A few more days would make no difference. A few more days was nothing. They didn’t have to do it the very moment Emma recovered. They could’ve just waited until the following Monday.
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For that matter, did she really need to be there, in person, at all?
She could just have her underlings do it. Any of them. Any of them she trusted, at least. Sophia was the only one who absolutely needed to be there on the day itself. She could easily orchestrate the whole thing from home.
To this day, Emma couldn’t say what it was, precisely, that made up her mind.
To this day, she couldn’t say why exactly she’d done what she’d done.
Except that, as she sat there in the doctor’s office, her useless father arguing with the man, as if words alone could bring about a change to physical reality, as if, like Panacea, they could mend flesh and bone, she…
She felt something.
A vast, and weighty presence.
A kind of pressure.
For a split second, it felt like a million alien eyes had suddenly fixed themselves on her. Like she was standing on a dusty, beaten, road, and all its innumerable forks were falling away, evaporating, vanishing into the nothingness, leaving only one left. One direction. One option.
One path.
No.
No, she realized, with an uncanny certainty. It had to be Friday.
It had to be Friday, and it had to be her. She needed to be there, to be present, to witness it, herself. She had to see them carry Hebert, kicking and screaming, out of the locker.
Then, and only then, would she finally be free.
So it was.
So it was that plans were changed. So it was that timetables were shifted. That actors were adjusted. And so, everything was set up for Friday.
Thursday night, the three of them loaded up the locker, repulsively. Friday morning, her posse barred Hebert, and all others, for that matter, from accessing it until class started.
Friday, noon. Her double agent takes action. Tells Hebert to meet her at the locker. Hebert goes, but her supposed friend isn’t there. Sophia is, instead. She shoves Hebert into the locker, and closes it from the outside. Closes it tight. A dark, dank, blood-filled coffin. An oubliette.
Sophia smiles, and returns to class. She tells Emma, who smiles back, and Madison, who frowns ever-so-slightly.
And they wait.
And they wait.
And they wait.
Lunchtime.
And they wait.
And they wait.
And they wait.
Afternoon.
And they wait.
And they wait.
And they wait.
And then, something incredible happens. Something none of them ever expected to happen.
The Janitor goes home sick.
The janitor goes home sick, and Emma, and Sophia, and Madison don’t do anything. And they don’t say anything. And they wait, and they watch, as, somehow, incredibly, for the whole rest of the day, no one goes near the locker. No one notices the smell. No one takes a closer look. No one touches the lock.
No one lets Hebert out.
The bell rings. The day’s over, and they leave. And they aren’t smiling. Not anymore. Any one of them could’ve gone back. Could’ve pretended to notice the smell. Could’ve alerted a Teacher. But they don’t.
Night falls, and Sophia could go back to the school.
She could open the locker. Could let Hebert out, or at least take a look inside, check that she’s still breathing. But Sophia doesn’t give a fuck about Hebert. Not really. Not like Emma does. And Emma doesn’t tell her to go, so she doesn’t go.
None of them do.
None of them do anything.
Saturday.
None of them do anything.
Sunday.
None of them do anything.
Monday morning.
Emma feels…strange.
She feigns illness. It isn’t completely a lie. She feels a bizarre churning, a gut-clenching, in her stomach. She feels nauseous. She stays home. For some reason, the idea of going to school fills her with a paralyzing fear.
Monday. Noon.
Nothing happens.
Monday. Afternoon.
Nothing happens. Nothing happens, except that Emma doesn’t eat the lunch her mother brings her.
She isn’t hungry.
Monday. Evening.
They’re all at the dinner table, and there’s a knock on the door. It’s fast, and firm. Two strikes. Her useless father hears it, and his brow scrunches in concern. They’re not expecting anyone. He rises to answer it.
Emma could stop him. She could. She could scream at him, could maybe keep him from getting up. From answering it. But she doesn’t.
She doesn’t say a word.
She stares into her bland, tasteless dinner, and listens to the rising voices at the door. They’re threatening. Aggressive. Accusatory.
Panicked.
She doesn’t really hear them, though. She doesn’t really hear anything. There’s a ringing in her ears that drowns them out. After a lifetime of shelter, reality is gazing down on her from up above.
Watching her, curiously. Observing her, as one might an insect. Staring at her, with terrible, horrible, oversized, multifaceted eyes. Merciless eyes.
Inhuman eyes.
Emma is bundled roughly into the back of a car, her arms bound tight behind her, even the still-injured, splinted one, making it throb anew. She knows people are speaking to her, but she can’t quite make out their words. Not well. Not completely.
Only a few.
Murder. Manslaughter. Monster. Impossible. Proof.
Lawsuit. Dockworkers. Lose. Ruin. Plea bargain. Insane.
Life sentence. Remunerations. Possibility. Difficult. Confession.
Monday.
Night.
She’s here.
Here, in the all-white room.
A man in blue-ish, mechanical armor enters, sits down directly across from her. A cape. Strange.
Why would a cape be involved?
He taps the helmet that conceals his face from view, leaving visible only a gruff beard, and tells her that he’ll know if she’s lying.
It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t plan on saying anything.
He gathers her disposition quickly, but begins speaking all the same, and this time, she listens. With a surprisingly even, emotionless tone, he tells her what happened.
Apparently, Taylor succumbed to sepsis Saturday. Spent the whole weekend just rotting. Apparently, the mere act of opening the locker Monday was enough to make the janitor break down.
He’ll need therapy after this, the cape drawls.
Emma can’t tell if it’s a joke. She doesn’t laugh. She processes the news in a detached manner.
The investigation began quickly, the cape says, but still doesn’t tell her why he, personally, got involved. According to him, Emma’s double agent almost immediately ratted them out.
Despite herself, she’s surprised.
Disappointed. Pathetic. Weak.
Emma should have known not to rely on her.
After that, everything happened very quickly, the cape reports. Madison didn’t last a minute under questioning. Spilled everything, everything.
This, Emma finds far less surprising.
They search Hebert’s house. Find the journals. Perfect histories of the trio’s abuse. Madison corroborates them all, without hesitation, without restraint.
The fucking coward. The fucking bitch.
Then, the cape clears his throat, stops telling her what happened, and starts telling her what’s going to happen.
Under-eighteen’s are exempt from the death penalty, he explains, but her age won’t protect her in any other regard. The locker is bad enough, but ultimately a discreet incident. The notebooks are something else, entirely.
They are, he says, damning.
He tells her that she has two options.
The first, a life in a maximum-security prison. She doesn’t want that, he claims. He is vehement. Prison is no place for someone her age, and, given the circumstances, she is unlikely to ever see parole. She may well die young, and, even if she doesn’t, her life will be a constant misery.
But, he declares, there is another option. A second one.
Her behavior, he informs her somewhat clinically, demonstrates distinct markers of severe psychological trauma. With the appropriate legal representation (which, he snorts, her father will no doubt be able to secure) she may be capable of pleading insanity.
He taps his helmet, again.
He is a Tinker, he explains.
A Tinker, testing a novel lie detector device. Her testimony, corroborated by reports generated using his tech, may be capable of both securing her plea, and proving the device’s veracity in an official setting.
She doesn’t even need to lie, he adds. She doesn’t need to learn a story. All she needs to do is answer some questions about how she thinks, and how she feels.
Emma senses the bile in her stomach start to rise. An insanity plea? But, she is not insane. She was never insane. How could she be?
She was the mastermind.
She would require intense therapy, and medication, he caveats. Years of it. Regular psychological examinations. But, he adds, this path offers her the chance of an eventual reintegration into society. This doesn’t need to be the end, for her. She can still live a normal life.
A good deal, he emphasizes.
For the both of them.
There is a pause.
Perhaps he expects her to reply.
She doesn’t.
She says nothing.
The cape exhales heavily, a hint of frustration leaking from the edges of his otherwise reserved, academic demeanor. He rises from his seat, and makes to leave. When he reaches the door, he stops.
Slowly, he begins to speak.
Hebert’s father is angry, he says. Very angry. He has nothing left to lose. He controls the Dockworker’s Union, which gives him a significant political weight. He is pushing for a life sentence. Pushing hard.
The cape turns to look at her.
Without his help, the cape says, Hebert’s father will more than likely win. She will be put away for good. Forever.
He favors her with another intense glare.
A manipulation tactic, she recognizes. It almost makes her smile. But, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t work. What will be, will be.
The cape sighs once more, shakes his head, and exits the room.
Emma looks down at her hands.
Her wrist doesn’t hurt. Not anymore. The numbness has swallowed it up. In a way, she realizes, this is right. This is proper.
She was weak.
Taylor died, but, in the end, she lost.