conviction (n.) - of one having a solid system of belief and/or a strong belief in what one believes and speaks.
to convict (v.) - to punish someone for an offense; to bring dire consequences unto them.
The howling of wind. The roll of thunder. The pricks of rain, dripping down from the heavens.
When Kate wakes up, all she can feel is the rain pelting her skin and the back of her black overcoat. With shaky hands, she presses up from where she lies on the soggy wet ground, the mud staining her white blouse as she moves to stand up.
…where am I?
The water is frigid, and the wind sends it fiercely down upon her. With a hand raised to shield her eyes, she looks up to the dark grey clouds, tendrils of moisture swirling overhead. The whole sky is under siege by the onset of a great and terrible storm. Kate hugs herself to prevent her shivering, but it does nothing.
She realizes she is on the path that leads up to the lighthouse. Gravel paves the way up the hill, through rustling branches and bitter-cold rain. Kate sees the lighthouse tower above the canopies of trees, its light a beacon of refuge against the tumultuous stormy backdrop.
I need to get up to the lighthouse, to safety.
Marsh gathers her strength, her flat-footed shoes digging into the soft earth as she makes the trek up the path. She keeps her head down, sparing glances upwards to measure how far she has to go. The wind whips the rain about and pushes her this way and that, as if wishing to prevent her desperate ascent. Kate fights her way up, one step at a time.
God, please help me—I beg of you!
She could feel the moment the wind and the rain eased their merciless torment, no longer was she assailed by vicious blasts of perspiration. She dared to open her eyes, and beheld the sight of miracles: a swarm of bright blue butterflies coalesced her. Though they did not shield her entirely from the wrath of this storm, they eased her burden as she took the last few steps up the slope. When she reached the clearing at the top of the lighthouse cliff, the butterflies fluttered away, and disappeared into the sky.
The wind and the rain came back in full force. Kate shivers, but it was not merely because of the cold.
A roaring colossus was gathered throughout the waters of the bay. A gargantuan beast of nature, rising from the water and towering over her and the lighthouse. The wind was its voice, and it bellowed an unending cry for destruction, demanding a sacrifice for its wanton desire.
It was greater than anything Kate had ever seen. All that might have been foretold in the Book of Revelations, of disasters beyond human comprehension—this made such events seem so fleeting in comparison. The blonde could do nothing but watch as this monstrous force advanced towards her hometown, ready to lay waste to all in its path. Everyone would be swept away—hundreds, thousands of her townsfolk would be killed. Her friends, her family, strangers that she'd met and had yet to meet—all of them would be lost. A damnation of unfathomable proportions!
Terror crept in her heart. Salty tears stung her eyes. Kate wept, her hands covering her face. She couldn't see it, she couldn't bear to watch this nightmare unfold—already was she enticed to simply jump off the cliff and spare herself the pain. Her legs, shivering from the cold rain, gave out and she fell to her knees—
The noise collapses into silence. Everything is pitch black. Kate tries to raise her hand up to her face, but she can't see it. She flails, trying to find anything that's tangible, but nothing is there. Her cries are lost in the void.
Is…is this hell? Have I been rejected by the Lord?
She feels herself crying, but it's all numb. Her senses are dulled, and she can't recall anything besides shapes and colors. All of which are fleeting in comparison to the abyss she floats in.
Sound finally reaches her ears, faintly audible. Kate shifts, and the noise becomes clearer. Voices. Familiar, but not.
What is it, chrononaut?
…I'm going to try again.
Her hand reaches out to get their attention, but she is suddenly and swiftly pulled away, back into the darkness—
With a silent gasp, Kate jolts in her chair. Her muscles tense, her hands shiver; she takes in the sudden moment of being transported from her dream into reality. It's Monday, the seventh of October. It's afternoon, the sun is shining outside. She's in photography class. There's no storm, no hellish void—it was all a horrible dream.
Nobody else in the classroom takes notice of her return from slumber, and Kate breathes a sigh of relief. Heaven forbid she be caught sleeping in Mr. Jefferson's class, as he is known to take great pleasure in using his comically large personal textbook to slam down onto the desks in order to wake up students dozing in his class. He hasn't done it to anyone yet, and Kate does not want to test her luck with being the first poor soul on his tally. That, and she would give life and limb to avoid being a piece of gossip that circulates Blackwell Academy.
Any more than she currently was, at least.
Mr. Jefferson was in the middle of his lecture. He had his back turned to Kate, and thus did not see the moment she had snapped awake. Knowing she was safe from any of Jefferson's scrutiny, Marsh quietly observed the rest of the class. The clatter of something on laminate tile could be heard near the door, as Stella leaned down to pick up the pencil she dropped.
Something smacked Kate in the cheek, and she looked down to her lap to find a balled-up piece of paper. Hey eyes shifted to the senders of the message, the Queen of Blackwell and her blonde denim-clad minion, snickering at her from across the room. Kate frowned, and only by her own curiosity did she bother to read the message.
Dear Kate, we love your porn video – xoxo
She knew it was a reference to when she visited the party last Friday, about what happened to her when she was drugged. That had been the conclusion that Max and the others reached; booze doesn't knock someone down as quickly as it did to Kate, no matter how much of a lightweight the blonde was. The descriptions she gave to them about what she felt and what she remembered were enough proof to them that something terrible had befallen her, but this did not stop people from believing what they wanted to believe.
This wasn't helped by the presence of a video that surfaced on the Internet, on some mainstream platform no less, that gave a very clear picture of what happened when Kate was caught in the vortex of people as she tried to leave. Though Marsh was morbidly curious about watching the video to figure out what really happened, her friends implored her to not do so, for fear that she would regret what she might see. She takes their words about what they witnessed in the video to heart, and leaves it at that.
The rumor factory had ran with the notion that Kate Marsh, devout Christian and chaste virgin, was actually a sexually perverse freak that would be down for the most egregious of sins, provided a bit of alcohol was present to get her fired up. She hadn't bothered trying to stop these rumors, but kept her head high and her posture straight despite the whispers and the sinister looks. Her faith was like armor, her virtue was a shield.
Thus, Kate didn't bother with interpreting the message, choosing instead to crush the note with her fist, the anger reaching a boiling point despite her efforts to keep calm. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her visibly buckle under their false claims, not here, not now.
Marsh looked over to the table near the back of the classroom, where Max sat with her journal placed in front of her, and a pen in her right hand. The mousy brunette shared this class with her, and was often Kate's partner when it came to any groupwork Jefferson had in store.
The blonde smiled to Max, hoping she would return the sentiment—but Caulfield was unaware of her surroundings. The brunette's eyes were angled down at the journal, and she was furiously scribbling something upon it. Marsh noticed that her friend's shoulders were tensed, and her knuckles were holding tightly to the pen. Max was stressed out, and no amount of smiling was going to relieve that stress. She wondered what it was that had Max so fervent on making another entry into her journal; she'd have to ask about it later, when they were able to reconvene over some tea.
Kate looks away, and eyes her personal camera placed on her desk. It was a gift from her parents on her sixteenth birthday, and has been her primary tool in pursuing her dream of becoming a photographer. She believed wholeheartedly that it was God's plan for her, to capture the moments of good that are present within her life and the lives of everyone around her.
Jefferson's attempt to kindle this sentiment came in the form of an Everyday Heroes Contest, something that the whole class was striving to succeed in. The winner was alleged to receive a paid trip to the Zeitgeist Art and Photography Museum in San Francisco, and have all the opportunity to jump-start their career in photography if they so desired. Many times Kate imagined what it'd be like, to be complimented and recognized for her selfless ambitions.
However, there was one small problem. She had no entry to submit for the contest. Dread swelled with every day that passed her by, because she wanted to be absolutely sure of her chances, but she doubted the submission she had was good enough to be contest-worthy material. She already knows that Jefferson has a keen eye out for other students and their works, so her entry was already pitted against the odds.
Her current choice was a photo of a fireman handing an old woman an antique picture, which had been nearly lost when the poor woman's house had caught fire and burned to the ground. The woman, her husband and their two grandchildren could only watch helplessly as their home was scorched by the flames. The family were close neighbors to the Marshes, and Kate took great care to including this family's opinion on the matter of having this photo be used for the contest. The old woman was a kind soul, and had given Kate her consent, affirming it with such words as these—
Better to turn a bad moment into a good one, she had said. It was teeming with words unspoken, such that Kate found it hard to even consider the photo a good choice because of the circumstances surrounding it. It felt wrong to benefit from the expense of others, and she couldn't justify submitting it for her own selfish gain.
Marsh found herself famished for inspiration, anything to kickstart her thoughts. She eyed her camera, and decided to make sure it was working properly. So she reached out and took hold of her camera to inspect it, but her thumb accidentally depressed the shutter as she grabbed it—
Click.
She forgot about the flash the camera used, and it was just her luck that Jefferson noticed it as he was busy lecturing. His lips curled into a smile, for he sensed an opportunity.
"Hold on now—I believe Kate has taken what you kids call, a selfie—"
The blonde froze, eyes wide with dread. Multiple pairs of eyes were locked onto her. The figurative spotlight shone down upon her.
Oh no.
"—a rather dumb word for a wonderful photographic tradition. And like many of you here, Kate has a gift…of course, as you all know, the photo-portrait has been popular since the eighteen-hundreds. Your generation was not the first to use images for selfie-expression."
Some exasperated groans sounded over the obvious pun, and Jefferson chuckled, "Sorry, I couldn't resist."
"The point remains, portraiture has always been a vital aspect of art and photography for as long as it's been around," Jefferson turned back to Kate, who was too caught up in his informative lecture to prepare for what came next, "Now, Kate, since you've captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you please tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?"
Like a deer in headlights, Kate sputtered, "I—uhm…I'm not sure—"
Jefferson shook his head, visibly disappointed, "You're usually on top of these kinds of things, Kate. It's disheartening to see one of my best students acting this way."
Shame burned red on her cheeks, and she looked away, humiliated at her response. She might've been lucky if she hadn't dozed off, but it wasn't like she could go back and fix that mistake. She had no one to blame for this but herself, and everyone could clearly see it. Jefferson's look of disappointment stung more than the scrutiny of her peers.
"Is there anyone here that knows their stuff?" Jefferson attempted to move on. He was quickly answered by Victoria, "Louis Daguerre was a French artist who created daguerreotypes, a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, similar to that of a mirror."
The Queen's words were smooth like honey, but many a soul knew that they were venomous as well. When Mr. Jefferson moved out of earshot to check for any mistakes in his attendance sheet, Chase feigned a pitiful look to Marsh, and openly mocked her, "Maybe if you pray hard enough, God will take pity on you and give you some test answers."
Shame morphed into righteous anger, fueled by that pixie-blonde's haughty smirk and her minion's barely contained snickers. What Kate wouldn't give to preach her two cents to Victoria, whose actions ought to have her be tried and convicted without a hint of remorse.
The bell rung, class was finally over. Many students like Alyssa and Stella and Daniel were quick to vacate the classroom—but Kate took her time. She was in no rush to leave, gathering her things and slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder.
She catches sight of Max stuffing her journal in her backpack, her mannerisms denoting a sort of desperation to get to where she wanted to go. Kate pinched her brows in concern, and walked over to the anxious brunette.
"Hey, Max?"
Max glanced up for but a second, then continued piling her things into her bag, "Yeah, what is it?"
"Is…is something the matter?"
"No, nothing's the matter," Max quickly dissuaded, slinging her backpack over her shoulders, "Look, Kate, I gotta go—"
"Wait, hold on," she reached for Max's arm, but the brunette seemed to predict this, twirling from the blonde's reach and stepping towards her to close the distance. Their faces were just inches apart—
Her blue eyes were burning brightly in the ambient light. Though Max's expression was lax, though she gave no indication of danger—Kate felt her stomach turn to knots as she looked into those sharp, bright eyes. It felt wrong. Unusual. She couldn't help but think that she was staring at a stranger.
"I have to go," Max whispered, barely audible, "I'll text you later, okay?"
Kate dumbly nodded. She couldn't say a word despite wanting to. Max shifted away, and was out the door before Marsh had the chance to call her back.
That was…strange. Really strange. It felt almost like Kate had imagined the whole conversation, standing there as dumbfounded as she was. First it was that dream she had in class, and now this?
Maybe, it was for the best that she left Max alone. She's not interested in talking with Kate anyways—but Marsh shakes her head free from her doubts.
No, something's wrong. I need to help Max, I need to talk to her.
She was about to step outside when Jefferson called for her. He was standing over by his personal desk, his arms were crossed and a frown was visible on his face. Though dreadful, Marsh walked over to him.
"Yes, Mr. Jefferson?"
"I hate to say something like this, Kate," he chided, "but your performance today has me concerned. I'm worried that something might be bothering you, that it's getting in the way of your learning here, in class."
"N-nothing's wrong, sir," Kate dissuaded, "I've…I'm just having a hard time finding inspiration."
Jefferson raised an eyebrow. He inquired, "Is this about the Everyday Heroes Contest?"
Kate silently, bashfully nodded.
"Well, one can't force an artist to work," he contemplated, "…I won't force you to do anything, Kate, but please understand that I'm here to help you. I'm not putting you on the spot to belittle you—in fact, I want you to succeed. You've got so much potential, it'd be a shame if you didn't act upon it. I only ask that you submit something for the contest before the deadline, otherwise you'll be without a great opportunity to take advantage of."
Kate nodded, "You're right, sir. I'll submit a photo—I promise I will."
Jefferson smiled in relief at that, "Good to hear. It's like what John Lennon once said: life is what happens when you're busy making other plans. Go on, Kate, I won't keep you any longer."
So, Marsh left, stepping out into the hallway. Students were scattered in their respective groups, happy that their classroom obligations were over for the day. Their chatter was loud, grating on Kate's ears as she walked past them. She needed to find out where Max went, hopefully she wouldn't be too far by now.
Her phone buzzed. Pulling it from her bag, Kate blinked in surprise at the message—it was from Max!
Max – don't run, hide by the lockers. wait until he passes. bathroom.
…what in the world?
Kate stopped in her tracks, reading the message again to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. But no matter how hard she blinked, the words stayed the same.
Don't run, but hide? What is she talking about—?
BAM
Kate jolted, as did everyone else, when the muffled report of a gunshot echoed through the hall.
BAM
It was gunfire! Chaos! Terror! The whole school was suddenly in motion, the loud reports drowned out quickly by screaming and confusion—
Kate was shoulder-checked by someone from behind, and was knocked to the floor. She rolled into the wall, bracing herself against a row of lockers lining the hallway, and watched with panic as people rushed past her for the double-doors. Her gaze followed them, but she looked to her phone one more time, the message taunting her with its sinister premonition.
Wait until he passes…?
Kate looked back. She waited. Everyone had fled, the only sound now was the alarm system that had been activated at some point, it's blaring tone was grating on her ears. Kate waited still—
A boy with a red jacket and jeans came running across where she observed. She recognized him instantly: it was Nathan Prescott, the heir of the Prescott family and de facto Prince of Blackwell. In his tight grip was a handgun, which was quickly stuffed into the pocket of his jacket. Kate shivered as she noticed, quietly watching as he slunk away under the cover of the alarm. She waited a bit longer, then stood up, and began her slow pace down the hall.
A security guard comes running from the exit. It was Madsen, the head honcho of the security detail at Blackwell, a very stern and uptight man. He'd given many people reason to fear his presence, and Kate was no exception; she ducked into cover again once she saw him.
She watched as Madsen was joined by another man, dressed in a grey suit and tie. His bald head and tall stature gave him away: it was Principal Wells. The two men had a conversation, and then parted ways, each of them rushing to their objectives. Wells ran for the exit, and Madsen went further into the building and out of sight.
This was a dangerous situation to be in. Madsen would surely find and interrogate her for remaining inside, without a doubt! And what could she say in her defense? That a message from her friend told her to? He would never buy that, he probably wouldn't even give her the chance to finish explaining before dragging her away. She had to bide her time, and pray he didn't see her—
He came back from where he went. He carried something in his arms—someone. Kate couldn't see any features of them except what they wore: ragged pants, a white tank top, and a navy-blue beanie covering their bright blue locks of hair. Kate gasped in fright once she saw all the crimson red color on this person, staining their clothes and their pale skin. Madsen was desperately shouting for an ambulance, perhaps to someone outside. He passed by, and his voice faded into nothing. Soon enough, the alarm ceases its blaring tone, and silence is all that can be heard.
Kate resumes her journey, and reaches the intersection. She stops. The exit is just to her left, and she needed only to pass through it and be safe. But her gaze is not fixed on anything but the trail of red droplets on the laminate tile, leading from the double-doors in the opposite direction. She eyes the origin of the blood trail with dreadful apprehension.
Bathroom.
She takes a shaky breath, and moves to the bathroom door. Before doubts could assail her, she takes the handle and tugs it open.