It was shortly past 7pm on a late October evening when the fighting started.
Chandler McCann was lying in bed and idly scrolling through his phone waiting for either Cookie or Jordan to text him back - he always talked to more than one girl at a time, that way his chances of succeeding with one of them was higher. He was only twelve and he'd already been to third base (with Pagie). If he was lucky, one of these little sluts would open her legs for him and let him pound her pussy. He hoped it was Jordan, but it didn't really matter. His old man said snatch was snatch. He also said girls were interchangeable, and from what Chandler had seen so far, he agreed. Girls liked to think they were special little snowflakes but they were all alike: Same basic bitch fashion, same basic bitch music, same basic bitch person. The only thing a woman really has to offer different from any other is her looks. Jordan was hotter than Cookie so she was at the top of his list, but Cookie had a mouth and a pussy too, so it's not like either one was unique.
A loud crash brought him out of his reprieve. His mother screamed, and glass exploded against the wall. His father roared, "FUCK YOU, BITCH," and Chandler's normally inert heartbeat sped up. Just a little.
Dad sounded drunk, and when Dad got drunk, he got mean. A corporate lawyer for a number of firms in Detroit, Dad was loaded. Chandler had grown up in the lap of luxury and looked down on people who hadn't. His friends, his classmates, everyone else in town, really. Royal Woods was a shit hole burg full of poor people, niggers, and white trash. Chandler fucking hated poor people. He delighted in flexing his superiority on them whenever he could, usually cloaked as joking around.
Being rich was just one of the many ways in which he was better than everyone else. It pissed him off that it was technically Dad who was rich and not him, but the effect was largely the same, so eh, whatever. One day he'd have more money than his old man ever dreamed of. He might even run for Governor of Michigan or something.
That was a concern for another day, though. Right now every time Dad had staggered into his room and yelled at him, hit him, or choked him was flickering through his mind and he was beginning to think getting out of here for a while would be a good idea.
Shoving his phone into his pocket, he sat up, pulled his sneakers on, and hurriedly tied them. In the living room, Mom wailed and begged Dad to stop. Something thumped against the floor, and the whole house shook.
He didn't used to like it when his father hit his mother, but she stayed with him and let him hurt both of them. She let him get drunk, tear down the house, and beat them, so she fucking deserved it, fuck her.
Shrugging into a denim jacket with sheepskin lining, he crossed to the window, lifted the sash, and glanced over his shoulder, as though his father would be standing in the doorway, a bottle of beer in one hand and his belt in the other. Nope. He was still kicking Mom's ass in the living room.
Better you than me, bitch.
Chandler climbed over the sill and dropped the three feet to the ground below, rustling the bushes pressed tight to the siding. He was thin and wiry but didn't have the upper body strength to pull himself up when he needed to get back in, but that was okay, he kept a plastic milk carton in the bush for just that reason.
A lot of people don't learn from their past. Chandler did. This wasn't the first time he sneaked away in the dead of night and it wouldn't be the last; he had it down to a science and was convinced he could slink away in broad daylight without his idiot parents realizing it. Sometimes, like now, he left to escape his father, but more often than not, he did it simply because the night called to him, its dark siren song growing louder and more insistant the longer her ignored it. His room was small and stuffy, but the night was open, cool, and bewitching. On his nocturnal jaunts, stealing through sleeping neighborhoods like a bad dream, he would stare up at the big houses sitting back from the sidewalk and wonder what the lives of the people inside were like. Did they have to practice their smile so that it looked genuine? Did they realize how cold and hateful their so-called loved ones were, or were they deluding themselves? When he came across a front window flickering with the blue TV glow of an insomniac or invilid, he would imagine himself going inside. How would they react? How would he react?
A few times, he crept through backyards, testing doors and peering through windows, his heart racing a mile a minute. In those fleeting moments, he felt alive, truly alive, and the heady thrill that came over him was better than any drug he could imagine.
He never found an unlocked door on his haunts, and he was partly disappointed and partly relieved, disappointed because he wanted to take things to the next level and glad because his vague understanding of what resided on "the next level" scared him.
Presently, he slipped away from the house, ducked around the trunk of an oak tree, and crossed the side lawn to a stand of trees separating his yard from Pine Street. A chill breeze stirred the trees and pushed drifts of dead leaves across the pavement with an ominous scritch-scritch that sounded eerily like the limp dragging of undead feet. Fallen leaves carpeted the forest floor and crunched beneath Chandler's shoes, and the ghostly moonglow filtered through the treetops in falls of silver. On Pine, tiny houses spaced well apart from each other presided over wide yards. It was early and many of them were warmly lit, shadows darting across curtains as the people inside passed by on their way to dinner, or to watch TV, or to beat their wives. Chandler turned right and followed Pine to Ashdale Court, where he turned left.
As he walked, hair blowing and cheeks turning numb, he let his mind wander like a restless spirit. He thought of all the girls at school, and a leaden mixture of lust and hatred swelled in the pit of his stomach. How could someone be so attracted to something, drawn to it, and alternately disgusted by it? He wavered perpetually between rage and desire. One minute he wanted to fuck girls...the next he wanted to hurt them. He wanted them, but he didn't; he loved them and hated them. Sometimes, when he masturbated, he would think about sex only to go soft, then get hard again at the image of hitting them the way Dad hit Mom. In school, he stole furtive looks at them, and he could never tell what he was feeling - ardor, fury, or something in between. The time he was with Paige, his hands ached to be around her soft, pulsing throat. He accidentally scraped her insides with his fingernail while fingering her, and her sharp yelp of pain made him feel funny and fluttery. He wanted to do it again, but he wasn't brave enough, so he didn't, but every night, lying in bed and struggling to sleep, he wished he had.
Ashdale Court brought him to Main Street, where wrought iron lamps cast puddles of murky light on the sidewalk and shuttered storefronts faced empty streets. A few cars sat forlorn in slanted parking spaces and the county courthouse held court over town square. A bum covered in newspapers lay on the bench before the statue of Royal Woods' founder Erick Larsen. Chandler's hand closed around the switchblade he carried always in his pocket and the urge to plunge it deep into the vagrent's chest came over him. His step faltered and he almost did it, but he resisted and went on, no destination in mind, just needing to walk, think, outrun the dark yearnings threatening to consume him.
Before long, he was passing Flip's. Someone came out the front door and Chandler spared them a glance.
He stopped.
Ms. Johnson, his teacher, dug her keys out of her purse, slung it over her shoulder, and scurried to her car. A tall, shapely woman with wide hips and small breasts hidden under a baggy green sweater, she wore her red hair up in a sloppy bun with a pencil lanced through like the mythical sword in the stone. Her skirt, long to preserve her spinster's modesty, swished around her knees and her heels clicked on the pavement, producing a forlorn tempo that rebounded through the night.
Of all the women and girls he knew, he hated Agnes Johnson the most, even more than his mother. He passed every class he was in with an A+ because he was naturally smarter and better than everyone else. Every class, that is, except for hers, English. She nitpicked every little thing. Every misplaced comma, every stray cursive loop, every compound sentence. She delighted in tearing his essays and book reports to ribbons; no matter how hard he tried, no matter how fucking late he stayed up making his paper perfect, she always whipped out that red pen of hers with a smug little smirk. Let's see what you have for me today, Chandler. God, just the sound of her voice made his blood boil.
She went around the front end of the car and opened the door. Even at this distance, he could discern the outline of her butt beneath her skirt. As much as he hated her guts, the womanly shape of her body excited him, and his dick began to stir. His tongue flicked out and swiped across his lower lip, and pressure rose in his middle. He pictured yanking her hair so hard it brought tears to her eyes, slamming her face against her desk, and thrusting into her, and his dick came to life with a mighty jerk. She climbed in behind the wheel, pulled the door closed behind her, and started the engine. Chandler watched her navigate to the exit, turn right, and drive off. He stared after until her taillights dwindled, barely aware that his rod was throbbing in time with his heart, or that he had clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into the heel of his palms. Black feelings, and even blacker thoughts, swirled through him, and this time, there was no escaping them.
At last, he knew what he wanted.
And he was going to get it.
Cold rain drizzled from the churning sky and the trees up and down Chandler's street smoldered red and yellow. Dirty gray rivers rushed along the gutters, pushing trash, twigs, and dead leaves into storm drains, and water pooled in the soupy front yard. A big yellow bus with Royal County Schools stenciled on its flanks lumbered by, mist trailing behind it, and a group of high schoolers hurried up the sidewalk, heads down against the falling rain.
Chandler dressed in a pair of jeans and a black sweatshirt, pulled his jacket on, and left his room. The house was dusky and silent, the furniture in the living room looming out of the shadows like monsters crouched in wait. There were no signs of all the things Dad broke in the previous night's fit of rage, though Chandler didn't particularly look for any. In the kitchen, he rifled through the pantry for something to eat, found a single Honey Bun, and ripped the cellophane packaging off. He tossed it into the garbage and crammed the confection into his mouth. He washed it down with a long drink from the milk carton, then left through the back door. Outside, the damp chill threaded itself around him and icy droplets splattered his head and shoulders.
The bus stop was a block away on the corner of Tisdale Street and Ridgemont Way. A few kids in hoodies and puffy jackets waited around a NO PARKING sign, a mixed bag of elementary schoolers ranging in ages from six to eleven. Chandler's eyes locked onto a pudgy little first grader with bushy brown hair, and his lips spread in an evil smile. "Hey, Joey, nice tits," he said. Joey looked up at him with a dumb doe-in-headlights expression, then quickly away. "How does it feel to be fat?"
"Leave me alone," Joey mumbled.
Chandler walked over and stood over him. He reached out and poked his soft belly, and he recoiled. "Wahoo," Chandler said in imitation of the Pillsbury Doughboy.
"Stop," Joey moaned.
The pitiful inflection of his voice, bespeaking weakness, pissed Chandler off, and his face darkened. "Stop being so fuckng fat."
A girl with glasses and short brown hair glared at Chandler. "Knock it off, Chandler," she said.
"Screw off, Summer, you're ugly too."
"Stop being so mean," Summer said.
From a boy, that wouldn't have fazed him, but from a girl, it made him mad. Uppity little cunt, who did she think she was? Girls always act like they're in charge, and just like his dad said, the world lets them think they're in charge. His hand closed into a fist and a ball of anger expanded in his chest. His vision strained and turned gray at the edges, and his jaw clenched so hard that streaks of pain shot into his skull.
Before he could punch her in the face, however, the bus pulled up. He took a deep, calming breath through flaring nostrils and favored her with a murderous glower. She darted her eyes away and hurried past to get on the bus. Chandler came so close to lashing out and shoving her that his muscles tensed.
Stupid little bitch. She didn't have the right to tell him anything. He was Chandler McCann. He was richer than her. No girl had any place to tell him something.
And especially not Ms. Johnson.
Sitting in the very back, kids talking and laughing all around, Chandler stared vacantly out the rain sluiced window and went over the plan he formulated the night before like a man stroking some new and precious possession. He ran the muddled images through his mind again and again until he was rock hard and seething with nerves. He was going to do it...he was actually going to do it and that prospect was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.
He saw her splayed before him, legs wide apart and her skirt hiked up around her fleshy hips. Her face was a mask of horror and she tried to scuttle away like a crab, but he ordered her to stop and she did. She was helpless, completely at his mercy, and the power surging through his veins turned him on more than anything else he had ever fantasized. She wasn't beautiful, she was middle aged and what looks she may have once had were beginning to fade like an aged snapshot of a comely girl over time, but he wanted her worse than he wanted Girl Jordan, worse than he wanted that faggot Lincoln's sister Leni; her fear, her vulnerability, and her inability to do anything but what he commanded made her irresistible.
In his daydream, he mounted her, wrapped his hands around her throat, and squeezed as hard as he could as he slammed his dick into her. Her eyes bulged from their sockets and a light bluish color tinged her puffy face. The drawing panic in her eyes brought him to the edge, and he pounded harder, leaning into the fall and filling her belly with his cum.
He didn't know what pussy felt like, but people said it was "tight" or "loose" depending on how much the girl got fucked. Ms. Johnson probably hadn't had a good dicking in years so he bet she was tighter than a Jew. He heard girls' butts felt really good too. Maybe when the time came, he'd flip her on her stomach and put it up her ass.
A shiver of delight went through him and he realized he was leaking into his underwear. He shifted positions, surreptitiously laid his hand on his crotch, and squeezed his dick through his jeans.
He couldn't do this alone. He needed help.
And he knew just the guys for the job.
Ten minutes after setting out, the bus arrived at Royal County Elementary. Long wings branched off from the main building and a covered breezeway trimmed the bland facade. The driver threw the doors open and kids streamed off. Chandler got in line, shoved a boy out of his way just because, and disembarked. Principal Koontz stood by the door next to Vice Principal Saul and nodded to the students as they poured into the lobby. The former was tall and balding with a thick mustache and the latter was a tiny old woman with Coke bottle glasses and silvery hair that stopped just below her ears. She put Chandler in mind of that one bitch from The Incredibles who designed all the superheroes' costumes. There was no ambiguity in how he felt about her: He hated her full stop, and smashing her face in with his fists would be the highlight of his life. The highlight.
Inside, a thousand shoes squeaked on wet tile floors and harsh fluorescent lighting bathed the procession of pupils in its icy glare. The main office was to the left and the trophy case to the right, the awards and accomplishments of past generations proudly displayed for all to behold. Chandler sneered his contempt and turned away. Sports was one of the many pointless activities stupid people busied themselves with to keep the self-loathing at bay. Most people, Chandler believed, realized how meaningless their lives are and fill their time with distractions so they didn't have to confront the truth. He wasn't like that. He was better and smarter than other people, he was special, maybe even blessed.
He was unique.
At his locker, he put his jacket away, grabbed his math book, and slammed the door. He found his friend Poppa Wheelie his own locker. A sweaty tub of lard with lank brown hair and a face perpetually red with the exertion it took to haul his fat ass around, Poppa was the kind of guy Chandler normally hated: Overindulgent, no self-control, gluttonous, and a fucking beta cuck who took orders like the little bitch he was. Every great man such as Chandler needs cronies, however, and Poppa was easy to control. He had no friends, the other kids made fun of him before he started hanging with Chandler, and he was desperate to stay in Chandler's good graces, making him the perfect toady. All Chandler had to do was say frog, and he'd jump so high his empty head would crash through the ceiling tiles.
"I got something for you to do," Chandler said without preamble.
"What?" Poppa asked guardedly. Chandler had asked him to do a lot of messed up things for his amusement, and though he was dumb, even fat lab rats learn after you shock them enough.
Lucky for Tits McGee, this was an easy task. "Keep your eye on Ms. Johnson today," Chandler said. "Listen out for anything she might say about her life or something."
Poppa's brow crinkled in confusion. "Why?"
Chandler narrowed his eyes, and a look of fear flickered across Poppa's face. "Just do it."
"Okay," Poppa said with a quick nod, "yeah, sure."
Chandler patted his cheek. "Good boy."
Leaving his underling to it, Chandler went to class, getting there just as the bell rang. As he made his way to his seat at the back of the room, Cristina looked up from her desk and flashed a hazy, love struck smile. "Hi, Chandler," she said.
"Hey," he grinned.
"Yo, Chandler," Kyle Parker called, "did you watch Zombie Island last night?"
Zombie Island was one of the most popular shows on TV and every Monday night, everyone in school watched it then talked about it the next day in breathless tones of wonder like it wasn't fucking garbage. If Chandler could, he'd tell them all how retarded they were for sitting in front of the TV and stuffing that crap into their heads, but life is a game, and if you want to win a game, any game, you have to play by the rules. That meant if everyone else liked something, you liked it. If they all wore something, you wore it. Fitting in is key. Life is theater. Everyone pretends to care about niggers and women and their family, but no one really does. Everyone is selfish, they just hide it. They lie to themselves with stories of Gods and morals and play at working toward something more than their animal nature. They look at men like Chandler like monsters because they see reflected in them the diseased desires of their own hearts...the ones they are too cowardly to accept. They chased people like him with metaphorical torches and pitchforks, so he had to play along. Grit his teeth. Pretend he wasn't superior to them in every way.
"Sure did," he said, "I can't believe what happened to Mick."
"Dude," Rory Goodman cried, "spoilers."
Chandler donned a chastized smile. "Whoops, sorry."
"Dude, you should have watched it," Jeremy Philips said.
"My sister was watching that dumb dating show," Rory replied defensively.
The others launched into an epic roast session with Rory as their victim, and Chandler bowed out. He loved making fun of people, but he typically only did it to younger kids like Joey and that little bitch Summer. You don't shit where you eat. If he knew he could get away with going hard on someone, he did, but if he wasn't sure, he held back. If he took off on Rory, he'd make the faggot cry and everyone would secretly think he was a dickhead.
He sat at his desk and opened his book to chapter five. Mr. Bloch, the teacher, rushed into the room just after the final bell, and Chandler rolled his eyes. This guy would come down on you like Judgement Day for being so much as a minute late, yet every day he came in late himself. Hypocrite. That's how people are, though. You give them power and they'll abuse it where they can. Some are smarter than others and only prey on the weak, others are idiots and charge in, guns ablaze. Mr. Bloch was a flabby, middle aged man with no wife and no life. He came in here and took it out on his students by being strict and inflexible. Oh, he said it was for their own good, but Chandler knew the truth: The old bastard had a blank check and he knew it, so he cashed it every chance he got. Screw him.
Chandler hoped he died.
For the rest of the class, Chandler divided his attention between the lesson and daydreams where he punched Mr. Bloch, strangled Vice-Principal Saul, and dominated Ms. Johnson. At one point, someone whispered his name and he shot them daggers for disturbing him. "Here," Charlie Decker said and handed him a folded note, "from Cristina."
Chandler took it and opened it, doing his best to not show his annoyance and succeeding with flying colors, just like he did at everything else. He expected a proposition (with those bedroom eyes she kept giving him, she plainly wanted him to fuck her), but it was just a stupid drawing of a heart. She smiled at him and he winked. Later on, he'd rip it into tiny pieces and flush it down the toilet...because it was shit.
At the end of class, Chandler went back to his locker and replaced his math book with his history book. He shut the door and turned just as Lola Loud walked past with her pert little nose in the air. Chandler tracked her with his eyes until she disappeared around the corner, not realizing until he turned away that his teeth were grinding. Of all the girls in school, she was the worst: She was stuck-up, full of herself, and thought every boy should fall down and worship the ground she walked on.
He hated her.
In history class, Poppa Wheelie sat directly ahead of him. "Did she say anything?"
Poppa shook his head. "No."
He didn't really expect her to.
Apparently he'd have to do this the hard way.
Later on, at lunch, he sat at a table by the wall with Poppa Wheelie, Rusty Spokes, and Lincoln Loud. Together, they represented the biggest group of dorks in the whole school but they were all easy to control, which made them better than most of the other guys he hung out with. He said nothing about the plans even now coming together in his head. He needed a few days to scope out Ms. Johnson and get to know her schedule. He was sure he could get the others to fall in line, but Loud worried him. He had a crush on Ms. Johnson and probably wouldn't like what was in store for her. On the other hand, he'd enjoy spreading her old, dusty-ass walls, Chandler just knew it.
The final bell of the day rang at 2:30. Chandler grabbed his coat from his locker and went outside. During the afternoon, the rain stopped and the sky cleared.
Instead of going home, he sat on the bleachers. It had a direct view of the teacher's parking lot at the back of the building. He scanned it, found Ms. Johnson's car, and watched it.
And watched it.
And watched it.
At dusk, he got up and stole around the side of the building, counting the windows and imagining the layout of school. When he found the one looking into Ms. Johnson's room, he pressed his back against the wall and waited a moment, then poked his head around the casing. She was bent over a stack of papers at her desk, her forehead knitted in concentration. She shook her head, as though whatever she was reading disappointed her, then marked it with her red pen.
He bet it was his third-period essay.
Rage bubbled up in his chest and he bared his teeth like a vicious dog. She was like Mr. Bloch only worse. She was a lonely spinster who hadn't been touched in years and she took it all out on the kids.
She took it out on him.
He'd pay her back.
Oh, he'd pay her back.
"Soon," he hissed, "soon."
Friday evening, Chandler pulled on his tennis shoes, threw his coat on, and went to his bedroom window. Mom was working late and Dad was passed out in his armchair, empty beer bottles littering the floor. Before getting dressed, Chandler tried to wake him up; he clapped his hands and called his name, but all Dad did was smack his lips and issue a pig like snort. It took an act of God to make him shift when he was wasted, which played right into Chandler's hands.
Lifting the sash, he climbed out, closed it behind him, and crossed the yard. Weak amber light fell through the barren trees and cold wind blew from the west, bringing with it the smell of burning leaves and the laughter of children from the next street over. Chandler shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and hurried down the sidewalk. The streetlights winked on one by one as he passed, as if triggered by the energy crackling in his veins, and by the time he'd gone five blocks, the sun had disappeared behind the houses lining the street, leaving the sky purple and pallid orange. He turned onto Main and then onto Schoolhouse Road, passing Miller Park. Two story houses, brick with European windows and clinging ivy, sat back from the street and trees rustled in the wind. He stroked the knife in his pocket as though it were a magical talisman and regulated his breathing. Superior though he may be, he was nervous, and several times on the way his resolve nearly crumbled. He could turn around, go home, and forget this.
Only he couldn't. He'd dreamed of it every night for almost a week. He thought about it constantly, and the more he entertained the fantasy, the more he wanted - needed - to make it a reality.
It was too late to go back now.
Presently, Royal County Elementary appeared on the left. The front windows were dark and a sense of desolation hung over it like a burial shroud. Every evening this week, he followed Ms. Johnson like a wolf stalking its prey, watching her, learning her routine, getting more and more excited at the prospect of striking.
On each of the nights that he shadowed her, Ms. Johnson stayed in her classroom grading papers until seven-thirty, then left by the side door opening onto the employee parking lot. The janitor, an old hippie with a bushy gray beard and rheumy red eyes from taking one too many trips to Margaritaville, fucked off around six-thirty, leaving the building completely empty save for her. There were no houses within earshot, and no matter how loud she screamed, no one would ever hear her.
Tingles of anticipation streaked out from his center. He'd take his time with her, relishing every tear, sob, and cry of pain.
Ducking his head, he crossed the street and walked around the side of the building. The others were waiting in the shadows under the bleachers: Poppa, Rusty, and Lincoln. Poppa sat Indian style because he was too fat to stand up for long without becoming winded, Rusty leaned against his bike and texted on his phone, and Lincoln played pocket pool and kicked clumps of dirt. They all started when Chandler came out of the night, then relaxed. "I expected you assholes to chicken out," he said.
Poppa Wheelie blew a dismissive raspberry. "I told you I was gonna be here."
Chandler told them they were going to break in and dump cooking grease from the kitchen on the hallway floors as a prank. We'll get at least a day off while they clean it up, he said.
None of them knew what Chandler really had in mind.
As expected, Loud was the hardest one to convince. Chandler had to pressure him into it. Loud, you see, was a giant dork who wanted to fit in, just like Poppa and Rusty. He wasn't as quick to do what Chandler wanted of him, but a little arm twisting went a long way with him. "You ready for this, Loud?"
Lincoln nodded. "Yeah."
He didn't sound very convincing.
"You're not gonna puss out like a little bitch?"
Lincoln shook his head. "No," he said. His voice came as a hollow mutter.
Chandler considered pushing the matter but he had waited long enough, he wanted to get started.
"Come on."
Crouching like a team of Navy SEALS sneaking into enemy territory, they stole across the moonlit athletic field, Chandler in the lead. A single light burned over the side door and Ms. Johnson's car sat in a slot on the other side of the parking lot. "Wait, is someone here?" Lincoln whispered.
"Don't worry about it," Chandler said.
At the door, Chandler tried the handle. Just like every night, it was unlocked.
He eased it open just enough to stick his head in. A long, dimly lit hall flanked by lockers stretched away into shadows. Near the end, cold white light fell through an open doorway and lay across the floor. Chandler listened carefully, then, when he heard nothing, he turned to the three boys clustered on the step behind him. In the harsh glare of the lamp, their faces were dark, jagged, and afraid. "Stay here," he ordered. "Keep the door open and come when I call you. Got it?"
Poppa Wheelie nodded quickly. "Yeah."
He turned to Rusty and Lincoln. "Understand?"
They both nodded and mumbled that they did.
Slipping in, Chandler crept down the hall like an acrobat traversing a trapeze. His heart throbbed in his throat and his bowels quivered. He could still give up, go back, and call this whole thing off. The others wouldn't think lowly of him; they'd be relieved.
But he already knew that if he did that, he would regret it even more than he regretted not hurting Paige the night he finger fucked her.
When he reached the door, he pressed his back to the wall. He braved a quick peek around the jamb: Ms. Johnson sat at her desk, absorbed in a stack of papers, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. Chandler drew back and considered his next move. He had almost everything planned out to a T, but not this, the beginning. He could walk in and play it off like he needed to talk to her about his grades or something, or he could rush in like Jason Voorhees. Neither one felt right, though.
He reached into his pocket, took out the knife, and pulled the blade out. It shook in his grasp. Holding tight, he put his hands in his pockets, took a deep breath,and went in; blood crashed against his temples and his stomach knotted, but he couldn't stop, for at long last he had reached the point of no return.
His instincts took over, and it happened fast. He sprang across the room and brought the knife out in one fluid motion. Ms. Johnson glanced up at the last moment and a look of fear crossed her face. She started to turn, and Chandler was on top of her, his hate coming out in a black flood. He grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face against the desk. Her nose burst and blood gushed from her nostrils. She screamed, and Chandler did it again, his knife hand pounding the back of her head. The chair went out from under her and she sank to her knees. Chandler rained a flurry of punches down on the back of her head, losing himself to the heat of the moment. She thrashed, shuddered, and twitched like a dying bug, and like a shark scenting blood in the water, he went into a frenzy. The knife flashed up and then down, the blade grazing her scalp and the side of her face. She slumped limply against the desk and Chandler vaguely realized that she was unconscious...and that if he didn't quit, he was going to kill her.
Panting like a wild animal and shaking with nerves and adrenaline, he tossed the knife aside, grabbed her by the back of her sweater, and pulled her up, then bent her over the desk. He reached up her skirt, hooked his fingers into her underwear, and dragged them down to her knees. He knelt, yanked them over her feet, then used them to tie her hands behind her back, knotting it as tight as he could. Blood spread across the desk and dripped onto the floor and broken moans hitched from her split lips.
Satisfied that she was immobilized, he got behind her, unzipped his jeans, and pushed them down to his ankles. He took his dick out with one hand and hiked her shirt up with the other. Her bare ass was white and salted with freckles, and her musk filled Chandler's nose like the sweetest perfume. He used his hand to find her opening, then guided his tip to it.
He slapped his hands onto the desk and threw his hips forward. His dick speared into her baking core, and she jumped with a skull cracking shriek. Her velvetine walls rippled hysterically around his shaft, and her muscles squeezed. She lifted her head, and Chandler brought his fist down on it. She moaned and started to cry. To fuckng cry. Like a baby.
Chandler pulled back and slammed into her again. Her sobbing intensified and her entire body shook with the force of her misery. Chandler set a fast, savage pace. He slipped his fingers into her hair and pulled as hard as he could, then gripped her hips and dug his nails into her flesh. The whole time she wept and trembled, the sound driving him mad with desire. He thrust his hands up the back of her sweater and dragged his nails down her skin, slow and deep, flesh ripping and warm blood trickling out. He crashed his fist into her side, and her muscles spasmed so hard he moaned through his teeth.
Over time, her tears tapered off and she stopped fighting. Cheek pressed to the desk, she just lay there and took it, her body jerking with every one of Chandler's thrusts. He splayed one hand on the edge of the table and the other on the back of her head, pushing with all his might and dimly hoping to crush her skull.
At his end, he sank himself as deep into her as he could and came, his load flooding her passage like lava and spilling out around his pumping shaft. He pulled out and flopped against her, his nose burying in her sweaty and blood soaked hair. Aftershocks raced through him and he chuckled darkly. "Did you like it, Aggie?" he asked huskily.
She sniffed.
Flashing, he grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her head back. "I said did you like it?"
Her throat bobbed and worked as she tried to form words.
Whatever.
Pushing himself upright, Chandler pulled his pants and underwear up. He grabbed the knife, went to the door, and leaned into the hall. At the end, Poppa Wheelie propped the door open with his bulk. "Come on!" Chandler called, his voice echoing eerily in the cavernous silence.
Poppa hesitated, then came in, followed by Rusty. Lincoln brought up the rear. Chandler stood in the doorway, waiting. The fire in his belly was less but not extinguished, and he was already starting to get hard again.
When they reached him, Chandler went back into the room. "Poppa, you first."
"Me first wha -?"
His words died when he saw Ms. Johnson beaten, bloody, and bent over the desk with her hands tied behind her back and her skirt hiked up up around her hips. She squeezed her eyes closed and wept silently to herself. Chandler turned and the three of them gaped in horror at the sight before them: Loud's face was completely white, Poppa's mouth was open in a perfect O of shock, and Rusty's eyes bugged out.
"Get your fat ass over here," Chandler said. He got on Ms. Johnson's other side and rubbed a circle in her butt, then slapped it hard with a meaty thwack.
Poppa was frozen in place.
"I said get over here."
"D-Dude, what the fuck?" Rusty blurted.
"We're gang-raping Ms. Johnson," Chandler said, and the frankness of that comment, as though they were doing nothing more than playing a game, made him laugh. "I went first, now it's Poppa's turn."
Poppa's eyes darted from Chandler to Ms. Johnson and back again as though they couldn't believe what they were seeing. "W-W-N-No, I-I-I…"
"Get over here," Chandler ordered. "Unless you're a fucking pussy."
"Dude," Poppa said dazedly, "n-no, I-I don't wanna do that."
A shadow crossed Chandler's face. "I don't care what you want to do," he said, "I told you to get over here." He jabbed Ms. Johnson's back with the knife. "Or I'm going to kill her, then I'm going to kill you."
That threat entered his head as just that, but as he spoke the words, he realized he meant it. He would kill them both, then he would kill Lincoln and Rusty.
Poppa gulped and looked at Lincoln and Rusty for help. "Come on," Chandler said again.
Tears filled Poppa's eyes. "Please don't make -"
"Now."
Poppa hesitated, then hung his head in shame and shuffled over. He stood behind Ms. Johnson and closed his eyes like a little boy confronted with a scary image. Chandler smacked the back of his head and he stumbled. "Put your dick in her."
Swallowing, Poppa unzipped his pants and pulled them down, followed by his underwear. His tiny penis retracted into his stomach like a timid mammal shying away from the light, and Chandler smirked. He always knew Poppa was small.
"Fuck her."
"I can't get hard."
"You better," Chandler said.
Poppa played with himself until he was semi-erect, then slipped himself between the folds of Ms. Johnson's ass. He fumbled, found her pussy hole, and thrusted. She cried even harder. "She doesn't like how little you are," Chandler taunted.
"I can't get hard, okay?" Poppa cried. "I don't like this."
Well, the point of making him and the others rape her was to get them actively involved so they wouldn't tell. Poppa's dick had been inside of her, so he was as incriminated as he could possibly be.
Stepping forward, Chandler shoved him away. "Rusty, you're up."
Poppa pulled his pants up and scuttled away. Rusty stared at Ms. Johnson, then at Chandler, looking so much like a deer in the headlights. "Do I have to?"
"Yes," Chandler said.
Sighing, Rusty came over and stood behind Ms. Johnson. He turned his head pointedly away and unbuttoned his jeans. "Just pretend she's one of Lincoln's sisters," Chandler said and grinned at Lincoln, who hugged himself and stared down at his feet.
Rusty pulled his dick out. It was a little bigger than Chandler expected, and hard too. He was enjoying this, fucking pervert.
He pressed his hand into Ms. Jonson's back, found her hole, and sank himself into her. She stiffened and let out a sob. "Please stop," she moaned.
"Shut up, bitch," Chandler roared. He slammed his fist on the desk and she screamed.
Laying both hands on her back, Rusty threw himself into her, and she moaned. He drew back, then slid forward again, his balls slapping against her. She broke down and Rusty paused. "Go on!" Chandler roared.
Rusty slammed into her, and she winced. Chandler watched as Rusty increased his speed, his own dick getting hard once more. After a few minutes, Rusty's face turned red and his knees shook. Ms. Johnson jumped and Rusty pulled out, a long ribbon of cum connecting his dick to her lower lips.
The last one in line was Lincoln. "I don't wanna," he said when Chandler called him over.
"You're going to," Chandler said.
"I'm...no, dude, I -"
Chandler stalked over, grabbed him by his shirt, and dragged him over to Ms. Johnson. He fought, and Chandler responded by punching him in the stomach. The air left him in a rush and he sank to his knees. "You're gonna fuck her like the rest of us, Loud," Chandler said. "Or I'm gonna cut it off."
He knelt in front of Lincoln, grabbed his chin, and lifted his face. "Do you want me to cut your dick off, Lincoln?"
Lincoln's eyes widened.
"We're all in this together. If you're not with us, you're against us."
Ms. Johnson lay curled up on the floor in a fetal position now. Blood leaked from her nose and lips and one eye was swollen shut. "I can't," Lincoln said, "I...I can't hurt her."
Chandler chuckled humorlessly. "Alright. "
He let go of Lincoln, went over to Ms. Jonhnson, and squatted next to her. He took out the knife, grabbed her hair, and pressed the blade to her soft throat. "Guess I'll just kill her then."
"WAIT!" Lincoln cried.
Chandler arched his brows in question.
"I'll do it," Lincoln said, "just don't hurt her anymore."
Chandler held his hands up, palms out, to show that he wouldn't dream of it. He got to his feet and backed up. Lincoln rocked back on his knees and took a series of deep, ragged breaths. When he was as pumped up for what was to come as he could be, he crawled to Ms. Johnson and stared down at her with concern. "Are you o -?"
"Fuck her, Loud," Chandler said.
Lincoln swallowed with an audible click. A battle raged in his eyes and he anxiously worried his bottom lip with his teeth. "I'll kill her," Chandler goaded.
With a sigh, Lincoln undid his jeans and pulled them down to reveal his underwear. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and brushed them over his flaccid dick. He took it in his hand and pumped. Rusty and Poppa sat against the far wall looking shell shocked. Poppa pressed his hand to his eyes and fought to keep from crying and Rusty stared off into space and hating himself for liking what he did to Ms. Johnson.
Lincoln stripped out of his pants and underwear and rolled Ms. Johnson carefully onto her back. She gazed up at him with her one good eye and he looked shamefully away. He moved her skirt up over her stomach and gently pushed her legs apart. He positioned himself between her thighs and brought his head to her battered lips. Chandler half-sat on the corner of the desk and grinned down at them. Lincoln's gaze went to Ms. Johnson's and his lips twisted bitterly. "I'm sorry," he said.
Hanging his head so he didn't have to look at her, he braced his arms on either side of her head and slowly sank himself into her, doing his best not to hurt her. She closed her eyes and turned her head away. She was broken by now and offered up no fight.
Lincoln rocked his hips and sucked his lips into his mouth in an effort to keep from crying. His naked butt flexed and clenched and his breathing became ragged. His mind and spirit rebelled, but his body naturally responded, and he moved faster as he lost himself to passion. Grunts burst from his lips and shivers went through him as he started to come undone. He jerked his hips, plunging all the way to her limit and making her moan in pain, he released and gave voice to his climax.
When he was done, Chandler clapped his hands sarcastically. "Good job, Loud, you managed to kill thirty seconds."
He pushed Lincoln aside and forced Ms. Johnson to her knees. He unzipped his pants, whipped out his dick, and snatched her hair. "You hungry, Ms. J?"
Without waiting for a reply, he rammed his dick into her mouth. She gagged and made muffled sounds in the back of her throat. Blood, saliva, and Chandler's own precum lubed the way, and he thrusted back and forth. "Take it, cunt," he whispered, "fucking take it."
Lincoln sat on the floor and hugged himself, his eyes glazed with trauma.
Chandler reached his peak and sprayed his seed against the back of her throat. She coughed and wretched and her teeth grazed his skin. Sneering, he pulled out and slapped her across the face, knocking her to the floor. He pulled his pants up and kicked her in the back. He pulled the knife out, intent on cutting her throat, but froze when the clang of a closing door echoed through the school. "Ms. Johnson," someone called, "I forgot to leave you the keys."
Chandler's heart jolted. Lincoln, Rusty, and Poppa all went rigid. "You there, Ms. Johnson?"
Shit.
SHIT.
Throwing the knife thoughtlessly aside, Chandler rushed to the window, opened it, and jumped out. Lincoln, Rusty, and Poppa hurried after, Poppa falling to the ground and crying out in pain.
This wasn't good.
She could tell.
And that's exactly what she did.
Agnes Johnson sat in her armchair and hugged herself against an internal chill that no amount of blankets could warm. It had been a week since she was beaten and raped by four of her students and those seven days and nights were a carnival of pain, fear, and paranoia. Lincoln, Rusty, Chandler, and Poppa Wheelie were all in the juvenile lock up in Chippewa Falls but she couldn't relax, and half expected one or all of them to appear around every corner. She checked under her bed and in his closet before lying down at night, but she still couldn't sleep. She checked and rechecked all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked and no one could get in, and since coming home from the hospital, she hadn't gathered the courage to venture out of the house.
Nights were the worst. She kept all of the lights on and carried a kitchen knife with her, but she never felt safe.
She took a sip of hot tea from a cracked mug, then looked at the clock on the mantle. It had been almost three hours since she last checked, maybe she should do it again.
Getting up, she limped stiffly into the bathroom. The mirror showed a face bruised, swollen and crisscrossed with cuts and abrasions. Her eyes, one black and the other bright red with broken blood vessels were haunted, and she looked quickly away. She picked a box up from the sinktop, slipped out a plastic stick, and sat on the toilet. She positioned it just right and peed on it, then got up and sat it on the counter. She watched with rising dread and suspense as the lines in the little window resolved.
Not pregnant.
Thank God.
Of all the mental and emotional anguish she had endured over the past seven days, none was as great as the fear that one of her attackers had gotten her pregnant. She took a dozen pregnancy tests a day, sure that this time her greatest fear would be realized, but so far, all of them had been negative. If she conceived, she didn't know what she would do. She doubted she could bring herself to have an abortion and she didn't think she could live with herself giving the child up for adoption, but she didn't know if she could raise it. She was thirty-eight and had never wanted children, and this baby, as innocent as it would be, would always stand as a terrible reminder of what happened to her that night.
Throwing the test away, she went back into the living room and sat in her chair. For a long time, she stared blankly into the TV screen, then all at once, she began to cry.