If a Tree Falls on Prom Night
Her overpriced mascara stained both cheeks on her face, and her pretentious tears had been dampening the rag jammed into her mouth for over a half an hour. I place my hands at the back of her head, and pull the restraint tighter to secure it. The corners of her mouth are appearing to pink-en raw; A special hue of light-red that seems to pair well with the purple bruising beginning to show just under her left eye. I proudly had given that to her in the bathroom, just before dragging her unconscious body into the middle of the woods where we are now. Even homecoming queens cry I guess, but who would have thought in such a lame, pitiful way. The pretty girls always seemed so perfect in the school brochures, at least the ones my mother and I had sifted through in the guidance office over the summer. Well, she is not so perfect now is she. I kick a pile of dust and rubble onto her flawless dress and watch it begin to settle. As it falls onto her it starts to mix with her sweat-dampened skin to create a muddy film that covers her silky white complexion.
“I guess this is what happens when you bully the wrong bitch, isn’t it Tiffany?”
She mumbles her frantic responses through her cotton muzzle. I assume it’s an attempt to plead for her mercy, or apologize. Who knows? Her mouth is gagged. I chuckle in amusement, and refuse to give in to her fake apologies. As if she forgot she is not at home with her Mommie who gives into everything, she responds with a temper-tantrum, and gives it her best try at breaking herself from the “Girl-Scout” quality knots that I secured her to the chair with. I confidently knew she wasn’t breaking free. I could have hung her from the edge of a cliff with those knots, and they wouldn’t have slipped an inch. Come to think of it, I actually did that same thing the prior year with Amanda, the head cheerleader from my last school. In fact, I remember using those very knots. I nod to myself in recollection. My only issue with Amanda was my grip, and misjudging her weight. On the bright side, I heard she had a beautiful closed-casket ceremony the next week. I sent flowers the day before we moved.
I looked Tiffany over. Her puppy-dog eyes were bloodshot, and her hair had become matted with sweat at the edges. Even with all the damage I had inflicted, she still looked arguably hot in a bad-girl grungy kind of way. I, being the typical goth girl who was single-handedly trying to re-incarnate the 90’s with my solitary style, could appreciate such a hideous look. I bent over at the waste meeting her at eye level, and took a mouthful of my favorite flavor of lollipop, cherry with a chocolate center. I rolled it around playfully to taunt her, accompanying it with a smirk rising from the corners of my mouth, then pulled it out with a dramatic flair. My lips smacked together breaking the silence, and shattering what was left of her hope with a single “POP!”
“See you in hell!” I sneer playfully.
I kick my black boot into her chest, and push her backwards until she is staring at the ceiling. A near perfect balance. Tiffany starts weeping for her life. This is the most honest thing I have ever seen from her. I giggle at the notion that it’s too late to go back now.
“What a shame, Tiff. There is someone inside of there Afterall.” I emphasize “there” with a final nudge to let her fall to the ground, and turn away to pack up my things.
The crack of her skull against the cement sound different than I anticipated. It isn’t like the movies, but much softer, duller, and painfully worse. She screams in agony, and her eyes widen with fear or perhaps it is the shock from being concuss. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor. Either way, it’s too needy for me, and her cries for help are disgusting. I have to get out of this place. I crumble the receipt and paper bag to the hardware store into a ball, and hastily stuff them into my pack. I zip it closed, then climb the dilapidated stairwell to exit the basement back into the woods. I never look back, except to slam the cellar door closed, and to secure it with a rusted lock and chain. Her cries for help are eventually swallowed by the forest, as I quickly put distance between us, then waltz back into my junior prom ready to commemorate the night. I think tonight I will ask Mason to slow dance. He is after all, single now.