Submission - Short Story
Bad Student, by Sara Howland of Kresge. She respectfully requests that you check out her blog, Once Upon A Time There Lived An Elephant: The sometimes true but mostly fictional saga of an uneventful life. It’s got some great stuff on it, I checked it out and can proudly say that I can put the KWHPresents stamp of approval on it. Without further ado, Bad Student.
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She sits in the bedroom. An ordinary bedroom, the bed unmade and the desk cluttered. She hasn’t been here long enough to call it hers. The posters sit in the corner, waiting to be hung, to give the room some color- it has none now.She watches the clock.
It’s an odd clock for this colorless, ordinary bedroom. It hangs on the wall, unlike the posters she hasn’t had time to deal with. An old-fashioned clock with hands and gears that tick on the second. Its timelessness contrasts with the shining computer on the desk beneath it.
Her eyes don’t follow the hands. They remain fixed on a number- the number twelve to be exact. She watches the twelve as the minute hand inches closer.
A knock on the door. She doesn’t turn from the clock. But it doesn’t matter, the door opens anyway.
“Are you coming to class?” Sean asks.
Slowly she turns her head. Her eyes only part from the clock once they reach the limits of their rotation. Finally they snap to her friend.
“I don’t… feel well,” she says.
Sean looks her up and down with a critical eye. “Really,” he says skeptically. “How do you not feel well? Headache? A cold?”
She doesn’t answer. Sean sighs.
“You’ve been watching that dumb fantasy show, haven’t you. I could hear you laughing from the other room.” She just looks at him, her gaze slightly unfocused. “When was the last time you left the house? Two days? Three? That’s not healthy, and you know it. You need to go outside.” Sean folds his arms, confident in his opinion.
“I don’t…”
“You need to go to class, really. You’ve turned your brain into mush, you need to stimulate it.” Sean is growing impatient with this argument. They have gone through it too many times.
She turns back to the clock. Her shoulders slump.
“You’ll fail if you don’t go to class. You’re wasting all that money you’re paying to go to this school by not going.”
She watches the clock.
Sean shifts his weight. He’s had enough. “Go to class,” he orders her.
“…I really don’t feel well.”
He grinds his teeth. “Fine,” he snaps. “Fine. Be a bad student. I’m not going to push you anymore, you can do whatever you want with your time. Watch whatever you want, fail however many classes you want. Just don’t come crying to me when you’re broke and unemployed.” He leaves, slamming the door behind him.
She looks at the door, regret in her eyes. There’s something else, too. It might be fear.
She doesn’t look very long. She goes back to watching the clock. The minute hand trembles in the brief seconds before it clicks onto the twelve.
It strikes the hour.
“Good girl,” the voice from before whispers. She can feel the cold breath on her ear. “I thought he’d never leave us alone, but you did well, driving him away.” Her head sinks slightly. Gentle hands stroke her hair.
The string they’d tied around her heart tightens.
“Don’t be sad,” the voice says. It’s a soft voice, caring, and it raises goosebumps on her arms, a shiver in her bones. “We wouldn’t want your friend to ruin our fun, would we?” The string around her heart tugs, as do the ones attached to her limbs. “Come along. We have to get going.”
A flash of light reflects across the white walls, accompanied with the whirr and grind of ancient machinery. The clock face clicks and whirls, and its gears unfold down and out, until the whirring stops. Where there was once an old-fashioned clock, there is now a doorway. The desk has disappeared, the bed as well. The open space through the door is bright and unknowable, casting the ordinary bedroom in shadow.
The strings pull her to her feet. As she stands her chair disappears as well. There is nothing but the door.
“Come in!” another voice calls through the brightness. “We’re all here, waiting for you.” This voice is warm and childish.
The fear grows in her eyes.
“Come along,” the first voice, the soft voice breathes on her cheek. “We don’t want to hurt their feelings.” The strings tug on her heart and limbs insistently.
She remains still despite the pull, despite the pain as the strings bite into her skin. “I don’t… want to…”
The soft voice laughs, kind and gentle. “Of course you do. You can’t lie to us, my dear. We have your heart. Now come along like a good girl.”
The pull is too strong, she’ll be ripped apart if she resists. She slumps. There’s nothing she can do: they have her heart, secured with an unbreakable puppet string.
She lets the strings pull her through the doorway.
