The Five Accounts Part 22

I asked Malek for a quick pee break. He said: “I better see you back here in a few minutes.” Let me go. When I stepped out the door, I passed Chet in the hallway. He told me to drop the money in locker 317. I didn’t know the drill since I’d never bought from Chet at school. Always went to his place. I dropped the envelope, with $150 in it and my name on the front, through the slots. As I walked to the can, he gave me the book, a paperback of Yasunari Kawabata’s Snow Country.

I looked at the title and asked, “Big fan of Japanese lit?”

Chet smiled. Said: “Yeah right. Someone else chooses the titles. I’m just a lender. You’d prefer instead White Fang? A Handful of Dust?1 The Snows of Kilimanjaro? The Nose? White Noise?”

I shook my head and left. Opened the book in a toilet stall. In the middle of it, several pages had been cut out, leaving a chamber where had been deposited a neat little plastic baggie. The marching powder my nose was twitching for.

I opened the bag. Lifted a tiny bit up to my nose with my small spoon. Inhaled it. After such a period of abstinence, it was like honey in my blood. I sniffed up some more wacky dust. It transformed me. Took everything that had been weighing me down and pushed it aside. Right now as I write this, I can say that I am wrapped in the arms of rapture.

I could write ten thousand more pages,2 but it looks like it’s about time to finish up. Detention’s almost over.

Account 5

My Day

I3 woke up early this morning. I smoked a cigarette first thing. I spent some time relaxing in bed. My sister’s cat, Bastiat, passed the door to my room then. I had some unfinished business with that damn cat. He’d annoyed the hell out of me last night with his meowing. I realized I hadn’t punished him like he deserved.

That cat was terrified of me. He ran away when he saw me getting out of bed. I caught him by the scruff of his neck. I took Bastiat into my hand, and he whined and scratched. I put my burning cigarette to his skin, and he howled with pain.

I had to remind him, since I could tell he’d forgotten by now, “This is for the noise you made last night. I can’t get my studies done with you meowing like that.”

I hated that cat. When he whined with pain like that, I felt good about myself. I felt good about the world.

When I got dressed that morning I took extra time. I wanted to look super nice. I first drowned myself in cologne. I put on the nicest clothes in my wardrobe, short of a suit and tie. I had my best shirt and nicest shoes. I even wore French cuffs and cufflinks. There was an extra special girl at Elmville High, Blair Brown, who’d be getting an invitation to the Homecoming dance from me today. She didn’t know it yet.

I ate a breakfast of eggs, bacon and milk. My mom served it to me, right on time and still hot and steaming. She’s a good mom to me sometimes. Except when she’s a bitch and gets in my way.

I hopped in my sports car for a quick ride to school. I squealed the tires as I drove down the street. My space by the door was unoccupied. As always. I’d worked hard to make sure everyone knew it was mine. I took the morning swig from my flask and left it in the car. The scotch loosens me up. It readies me for the hunt.

I didn’t have a chance to talk to Blair that morning before class because I had to take care of business. I’d been dealing weed since the summer. I had a growing list of customers. One of these had demanded I deliver half an ounce before class. I had to wait for him at the edge of the parking lot just outside of school grounds. By the time we’d finished our business I had to rush to get to class.

1. It’s probably of no interest to the reader, but this is one of my favorite books? –Bob
2. Forgive me if I’m not disappointed that she didn’t do this. –Bob
3. Deciphering Clement’s awful handwriting was a task tantamount to translating from Chinese. Many of my word choices are more accurately described as best guesses. –Bob

The Five Accounts Part 21

Started with Ginny telling me about how she’d hit skins with Mark, my boyfriend. It really riled me.

I asked her, “Is there any rod at this school you haven’t greased you slut? I’ve seen that you’ve been checking me out. My theory is that, since there’s no hotdog at this school you haven’t hopped on, you’re wanting to start munching some muff, just for variety.”

That whore told me, in her annoying voice: “I’m not a slut!” Should’ve seen the way her hideous face contorts when she’s angry.

Couldn’t help but laugh. Told her: “Oh because ‘slut’ just isn’t a strong enough term for what you are. Real sluts are like nuns compared to you. We’d have to invent a new word for someone who’s even sluttier than a slut. The ‘skin-flute sinkhole,’ the ‘man-muscle magnet,’ the ‘boner black hole.’ That’s what you are.”

This made Ginny go postal. She bitch-slapped me hard across the cheek and grabbed my hair. I pushed her away and smacked her across the cheek. She replied by jumping on me like she was trying to mount me. She was trying to crack my skull against a desk when our fight was broken up.

We both ended up in the assistant principal’s office. That roly-poly lardass Tutela asked me to explain myself. I said I was just defending myself. She was the clear instigator. Nonetheless, he sent me to detention after school anyways. Both Ginny and me.

Confronted Mark just before detention. If that fuck nut had been fooling around on me with that vd-ridden cum dumpster I needed to know about it. Intersected him in the hall.

When he tried to lean in for a peck on the lips, I asked him: “Did you really bump nasties with Ginny Snow?”

He about jumped out of his skin. Asked, “Who told you that?”

Made me angry. I smacked him a few times. Was shouting: “You cheating bastard! You shit stain! You troll-fucking cocktard! How could you nail that tart?”

He replied: “Come on, keep it down. People’ll hear you.” When I calmed down, he said: “It was before you and I were together. I’m sorry. It was a stupid mistake. She just has a way of getting what she wants. Please don’t tell anyone.”

I was still fed up to my eyebrows with him. Nonetheless, had to admit that it was a forgivable sin. At least he hadn’t cheated on me.

I was surprised to find Clement and Felice also there in detention, along with this weaselly little boy named Jed who I sort of knew.

I’d had a few classes with Jed, but about the only interaction I’d ever had with him was last year when he, out of the blue, asked me to prom. I had no interest in him. Did him the courtesy of telling him someone had already asked me out. I’m too nice sometime. Saved him the truth that he was a creep with no charm and no appeal. Even more, he was dull, he was awkward, he was eerie, and he had made no effort to get to know me or hit on me in any way up to that moment. No wonder he was a ladyless loner with no friends.

During our detention, Jed gave all his attention to Ginny. She understandably ignored him. She was focused on dreamy Mr. Malek. This showed that Jed was at least sensible. Ginny would go all the way with anything with a stiff sausage. He at least had an outside chance that her poke hole might be unoccupied long enough to permit him entry.

I slipped the memory card with Felice’s pictures into Mr. Malek’s hand. He sat in front of the class, with his laptop. The screen faced towards him, so that we couldn’t see what he was doing. He gawked at those pictures.

After ogling for a few minutes, he stepped out of the room. Returned with an envelope in hand. Said: “You received a message, Frankie.” Handed me the envelope. On it were the words: “120, Don’t open this in class. Malek.” Obviously, he liked them.

I covertly texted Chet. Was able to rendezvous in the middle of detention.

The Five Accounts Part 20

I listed off the other girls in the class, but he just shook his head through this whole list. Damn he was picky. Even some of the hot ones. I added last of all, really hoping he wouldn’t say yes: “My friend Felice. Felice Bliss.”

Man had a big smile on his face. His extra creepy smile. Said: “Yes. That’d be very nice. Same deal as before: I pay both for quantity and quality. Okay?”

I wanted to go back on my deal, but there was that ink-stained dress and that empty tin. The camera in my bag moved itself into my hand. A small, portable digital camera. It had better resolution than the camera on my phone, and it was small enough that I could conceal it easy enough.

Brought it to the locker room and arrived early to set up. Had the camera hidden in my hand when Felice arrived. Felt bad, I did. Nonetheless, I took several quick shots of her tight bod while I watched her undress and change into her swimsuit. Held the camera hidden behind the door of my locker. The lens covertly peaking between me and the door. Felice didn’t suspect a thing. Smiled warmly as my camera leered at her naked skin.

It gave me no pleasure to take pictures of friends like that, but the shots were delicious. They were mostly in profile, but the light was good and it was from close up and at a good angle.

After class I snapped several more photos of Felice’s hard body. Even got a couple shots of her in the shower from behind. One of her bending over while she soaped her feet and one of her arching her back while she rinsed her hair. I envied her pert little tits. And her rock hard ass. And her muscular legs. Well, just everything I guess.

I avoided taking a shot of her washing her legs. It exposed the lines of cuts that she made on the inside of her legs just below her vadge. Like little hatch marks counting the days. When she cut herself, she did it there, as the place she considered most easily hidden. If she did it on the arms, she could never wear anything short-sleeved or sleeveless. Even the underside of the arm just below the armpits would be exposed if she raised her hand in class. If anywhere lower on her legs, she could never show off her blazing stems.

I got an excellent set of shots. That beastly hoe Ginny almost spoiled all my opportunities. She wanted to shoot the shit with me, while I was trying to shoot my camera. If I didn’t know that she’d banged, boffed and boned practically every fella at school, I would’ve thought she was a dyke with a hard-on for me trying to chat me up, or something. Then again, she was such a randy fuckbunny that, in all likelihood, she didn’t care that I was dickless. She’d just say: “No problem a strap-on can’t fix.”

The crazy thing about Ginny was that, though she was a bit hard on the eyes, she had an uncanny ability to score with any man she set her sights on. The secret shame of many a choice thoroughbred. They’d be embarrassed to admit they’d dipped their wick in queen skank’s capacious quim. Though they had. Even if they’d been ridden by that cock jockey on many occasions and would gladly do it again, they’d still deny it. Almost no man would admit having fucked her, yet almost all of them had. Only the more shameless manwhores would admit. They’d tell you she was best lay they’d ever danced the horizontal tango with. Not surprising really: she’d spent more hours practicing her art than an all-star athlete. She could hit the three-pointer blindfolded ten out of ten times, metaphorically speaking.

Despite, or because of this, I always found her annoying. Never had the spine to tell her off. Until just today. That’s why I’m here in detention. And god-damned proud of it. Not while in the locker room. In my next class, where she and I were also stuck together. Just couldn’t hold it in. I really let her have it.

The Five Accounts Part 19

Wasn’t possible to return the dress before school: I doubted the store was open and I really didn’t have the time. That meant I’d wear it today.

When I zipped myself into it, it clung to my skin. It fit like liquid and stank of the odor of newness. My favorite smell. Removed one tag that could be easily reattached and hid the other inside. I saw a sexy stunner in the mirror. Raised the skirt a bit to show off my killer legs.

Packed a set of clothes to change into after school and feasted on a quarter of an orange for breakfast. Felice showed up bright and bubbly as a glass of pure fermented sunshine in her little white convertible. Leapt in and we greeted each other with a double-cheek kiss. Felice looked cheerful. Tickled pink I was to see her so pleasant. Her moods affect me. Bums me out when she falls into her gloomier spells. Brightens me up when she’s doesn’t.

The first few hours of that day’s educational internment were without incident. Everything seemed to be rainbows and unicorns. My crisp, new outfit put me in a spirit of rapture and exultation. I could even forget how much my whole body ached for coke.

Sad to say, it all collapsed at lunch. The event itself is, even in retrospect, inexplicable. If I told that story to someone who wasn’t there, they wouldn’t believe it. Clement and Felice were sitting at our lunch table, and I approached to join them. Gave Felice a hug and a kiss and was about to sit down for lunch when the napkin holder sitting on our table split open. Split in two like a whore’s legs. Once open it began to vomit ink in every direction. For a full four seconds. Splattered black spots all over my clothes.

I was brought to the verge of tears. I legged it from the lunchroom. By the time I made it to the ladies room to wash away the stains, they were already so that they couldn’t be removed. No way, no how. My dress was now a worthless cleaning rag. Even ink on my skin stained. It was on my arms, face, neck, chest. I bawled a gallon of tears.

I’d had trouble concentrating all day. The new clothes were able to keep my mood lifted earlier. Now I was back into the awfulness all over again.

I changed into the clothes I’d brought.1 Looked unhappily at the ruined dress. I hate waste. Worst of all, I was out $135 and had no way of topping my funds. Asked Felice for moola. She gladly parted with the $17 she had on hand. Generous as a true friend. She added that she could get to more tomorrow. All told I had $44, one single short of a quarter gram. Chet wasn’t likely to extend me a favor. He wasn’t the generous type. Nor someone who liked doing favors.

Just then I bumped into an epiphany. Went to Mr. Malek in his office. He was always liberal with his time and helpful. Sat down across from his desk and politely asked him for money.

He didn’t say no. Instead he leaned in close. Told me: “You know what you can do for money. I’ve asked you before. It’s not too much to ask for, and I’ll pay you well.”

He wanted shots of me naked. I told him: “I still haven’t changed my mind. I won’t do myself, but I can take someone else”

He said: “Frankie, my dear, you must know that you are the most beautiful girl in this school. If you’re too ashamed to show off your assets, I don’t see who possibly could.”

I replied: “I have a swimming class next period. Virginia Snow’s in my class. She’ll be changing in the locker room with me. I’ll snap a bunch of shots for you.” I don’t like Virginia Snow. So it felt like double goodness.

He replied oh too truly: “Ginny Snow? Nah, not much of a looker. Who else’ll be changing?”

1. I found the dress in the east bathroom trashcan, a blue dress with ink stains. I didn’t know what to make of it until I read this account. There are so many mysteries in those trashcans for which I never find the answer, so it’s nice to figure out one of them. –Bob

The Five Accounts Part 18

Account 4

My Detention Story

I felt like a wreck this morning. Punished for a too-late night. The beer and liquor I’d mixed transformed in my stomach into suffering and soreness. Rolled out of bed and reached for the panacea for all morning regrets: aspirin and cocaine. Aspirin for the sore body; cocaine for the sore mind.

Grabbed them from the nightstand. Aspirin was there, but when I opened my powder tin, I found only a dusting of white on its walls. Licked up this little bit with my fingers. Not even enough to inebriate a flea it was. It did nothing to wrench the damn hangover from my head.

The tin was full just yesterday. I could guess where my powder had strayed. In all likelihood up the nose of Kristen. She apparently couldn’t be bothered to inform me that she’d used up the last grain of my lady caine. She was the spongiest mooch whore I knew; a gold digger in training, I suppose. Though her parents stuffed her pockets with bills, she never wanted to pay for anything.

I’d have to rush to refill my stash before the first bell. Rung up Chet. Asked him: “How much coin for a gram?”

He said: “C-bill and a half for a gram of c-powder. Eighty clams for a half gram. Five franklins for an eight ball.”

I only had four fivers and two singles in my wallet. Tentatively inquired: “Anything smaller than a half gram?”

The boy grumbled: “I guess, for you, I can sell a quarter gram for $45.” Asked if he had anything smaller. He just laughed. Said: “Quarter gram’s like one line, babe. That’ll get you about as high as a mineshaft. Maybe if you were a ten-year-old twig taking her first hit that might do, but not for you, babe.”

A little bit irked I was. Told him: “Fucking extortion. I could get it from your supplier for half of that.”

He laughed again. Said: “My supplier doesn’t want to deal with small change like you. He doesn’t even want to know you.”

Asked: “Who is your supplier? Give me his number. I’ll talk to him.”

The bastard told me: “The fuck as if I’m going to tell you that.”

Replied: “Well in that case I’ll hunt down another dealer who’s offering better prices.”

“I am the only dealer around these parts, and my supplier intends to keep it that way. He is not a fan of competition. He squashes any sucker who tries.”

Went downstairs to find my mother stretched in front of the idiot box watching her morning dose of daytime soaps. Addiction runs in the family, I guess. Asked her: “Mom, can you front me some cash?”

She asked: “You need some money for lunch?” So clueless She handed over a fiver.

Took the scratch, but rolled my eyes. Said: “No, mom. More than this.”

She sighed a bit. Frowned. Told me: “Dear we give you a more than sufficient allowance. If you need more to waste on whatever it is you spend it on, you’re going to have to earn it yourself. You’ve got a closet full of clothes up there. You’ve got food on your table, a house over your head. What possibly more could you need?”

That spoiled whore somehow could bitch to me about not earning money. Her whole life she’d been spending daddy’s bread on shopping, manicures, and lunch dates with her dingbat girlfriends.

Still she was helpful. Reminded me of something. I had a dress in my closet that needed returning. I’d bought it in order to wear it once or twice and return it to the store, receipt in hand, for a full refund. Done it many times before. Only down side was I had to handle such clothes with extra-care. No food, no dirt could touch these clothes. Tags had to either be concealed or removed and reattached.

This dress hadn’t yet been worn once. A smoking a-line that had meanwhile set me back $135 and change. Not the most expensive article of clothing I’d ever bought, but definitely a hot number. Apt to cause a few rubbernecks in the hallway at school. After school, I’d get that filthy lucre from the store, and I’d be able to magically transform the dress into a full gram of blow.

The Five Accounts Part 17

I waved to Blair to get her attention and reached out to her as if I wanted take her hand, and she reached out to accept it. I next grabbed her hand and yanked it downwards, and with my other hand I pulled out the duct tape and began to wrap it several turns around her hand. I reached out and grabbed her other hand, while it flailed about with desperation, and affixed it besides the other with yet more loops of duct tape. All of this was accomplished in a matter of moments, and was so surprising and confusing to Miss Brown, that she did not know how to react. By this swiftness and preparedness I was able to guide her into my clutches, or, should I say, into the clutches of Fate and of Truth.

She tried to free herself, she tried to walk around the railing, but I grabbed her hips and held in place. Her bottom had been pushed up into the air, and I pulled down her pants and her underwear until they were wrapped around her ankles to expose this bare bottom that I had expose. I restrained her legs, tying her to the rails with more duct tape. I next pushed her shirt up over her head and unhooked her bra, leaving it dangling from her arms. My final brush stroke was in the form of a bucket I placed next to her with a sign that read, “Raising money for college. $1 a fuck.” I stuck a long string of condoms in it for verisimilitude.

The bell rang and I could hear students emerging from the rooms as I put some finishing touches by throwing some red lipstick and heavy eye shadow onto her face. After my work was complete, I walked off and left her to squirm and cry while the crowds began to form around her and laugh.

And it was amazing to see how long it took before anyone did anything to help her. Sometimes life has a way of so vindicating your beliefs that you cannot help but feel the temporary pleasure of happiness. I could hear people whisper to each other, “Is that Blair Brown?” “What’s that bucket say?” “Anyone going to donate?” “What is going on?” and so on.

Suffice it to say that Miss Brown too has her own capacity for cruelty, and she unsheathed this tendency in an effete way by hiding behind the power of the authorities of this institution and having them punish me for my harsh lesson.

I found myself sitting in Assistant Principal Tutela’s sterile, uninviting office staring at his, dull, corpulent face, trying to explain the essence of my deed to someone too blind to understand my words. In such a situation, it is not possible to be honest, I must admit. I only received detention for my infraction, a result not of Mr. Tutela’s leniency, but of my ability to bend him to my will.

So, I have been thrown into Mr. Malek’s jaws for detention. He has told us that, as we describe the circumstances of our day; he has told us to be honest, something I have dedicated my life to. He says he will merely check that we wrote it, and after that we can rip it up and throw it to the trash, something I am not comfortable with, at least on a metaphorical level, since I consider it my duty and mission to tear away the sparkling veneer of untruth plastered over our dark world, whereas these pieces of paper are plastered over with truth. Nonetheless, I will do as he says, since it is merely an exercise, and it may be appropriate that this fate should befall you, these painful and honest words I composed: that you should fall into the oblivion of a waste dump, that you should fester at the bottom of some great landfill in darkness all alone. That is what is fate that people always try to subject Truth to. But Truth, I shall dig you up and expose your fetid carcass to the world and even if the world should pinch its nose, I will not give up, I will not falter. I am the messenger and harbinger of Truth and its last and only true missionary.1

1. ended Felice’s account with this paragraph, though it wasn’t the end of what she wrote. She continued talking about herself and her situation, and I cut this material due to it being repetitive and not story-relevant. –Bob

The Five Accounts Part 16

Unforeseen complications could have arrived—that Mr. Common’s presence could’ve elicited his great sympathy for Miss Brown in her terrible plight and thus thrown them together even more rapidly than I would prefer. But that did not mean my plan was undue. If I should, by chance, again run into Miss Brown in that stairwell, then I could receive no clearer message from Fate that I should execute my plan.

But an even worse setback occurred during lunch. I myself, along with Frankie and Mr. Wright, was the victim of a prank. It was a prank immature and amateurish, undoubtedly the work of one of the most childish and least sophisticated members of our school, a person unworthy even to be squashed beneath my shoe. It was a prank, I suspected prompted by the merest spite and, not like mine, driven by some higher purpose, driven by the noble goal of truth and education. It was for certain a craven act of revenge, in retaliation for one of the more creative acts of belittling that I had performed on so many of my classmates. It was regrettable that, as the bearer of harsh truths, I was all too often blamed for exposing them.

I can only describe it as an instance of being squirted with ink when I least expected it. I was quite covered in it, over the length of my clothes, as well as down arms and across my face. My imagination saw a great vision of blood being spurted over my body, like a great orgasm of death, as if a dear friend had been slaughtered in my close proximity, turning my body into the repository of the blood and guts that used to be the vital tissue of a once beloved person. It was merely my imagination, but the thought was vivid, and I cannot contemplate the terrible morbidity of the person that decided upon this prank for myself and my friends.

This prank sucked all of the spirit and enthusiasm out of me. I went to the restroom and I sliced myself several times, until drips of blood flowed down my legs and dripped into the toilet bowl. My eyes were bleary and tear-filled, and even when I hit myself as hard as I could, I could not rid myself of that feeling, that awful, pervasive feeling that seemed to weigh heavily on my chest, not that omnipresent feeling of the pervasive hopelessness of life that I always feel, but something more heedless and irresponsible.

And I was tempted to give it all up, all the ambitious plans for Miss Brown, all the thought and preparation. I was tempted to run home and drown myself in my own blood, to dive into the night and swim through the blackness of a starless sky up into oblivion.

But I did not. For I had made my resolve and if there was something I believed, it was that my goals must transcend my petty moods. I had carried my necessary pieces of equipment all day and they burned into my back. The way they clanged together in my backpack with each step, they spoke to me every moment of their lofty purpose and would not leave me to rest through their incessant chattering. I could not introduce my weapon in the first act and not fire it in the second: everything for its purpose, nothing wasted. I would launch the shadow over Miss Brown that I had planned. I would fire my weapon of cold silence and make her feel the oblivion that I had been swimming through in my mind only just today.

Frankie asked me for some money in between classes. Though it was not enough for her, I gave it to her, parted with every dollar in my pocket and offered to give her more later when I could get my hands on it. I suspected she needed it for purposes that I did not approve of, but it was not my role to be her moral guardian and deter her from activities that I would consider beneath her, even activities that may have in a great degree impeded her freedom. Truth, as I have emphasized, is my polestar, and so long as she didn’t sink too deeply into foolishness and confusion it wasn’t my role to intervene. Besides, I had my own concerns that day.

Soon thereafter, Fate dropped Miss Brown into my hands—in the stairwell leading to the second floor of the science wing while I waited for her. She was there, walking down the stairs, unaccompanied, just before the crowds were about to show up. While she descended the upper flight just above the middle landing, I stood on the opposite side of the railing below her just below the middle landing.

The Five Accounts Part 15

But this is merely tangential—another facet in the bleak heart of reality. I only mention it because I had earlier attempted using Mr. Wright to shame Miss Brown. I had thought that if I could persuade that hapless, naïve girl to develop affections for that cruel man, that his own innate heartlessness might be the engine of her emotional devastation, but matchmaking has proven too challenging and complex and not at all suited to my skill set. I have instead resolved on a simpler and more achievable scheme, an undoubtedly wiser choice, I must proclaim, since unseen flaws and unpredictable elements plague even simple plans, and I do not relish the possibility of failure

It would take place on a stairwell leading to the upper floor of the science wing between the third and fourth periods. If I should be able to entrap Miss Brown on those stairs, then Mr. Common should encounter her as he ascended those stairs on the way to his fourth period class.

My plan was to be the height of simplicity, like an elegant little sonata or a short haiku. Alas, as I will elaborate, circumstances still arose to thwart my designs, and I suspect that Fate had its own designs upon me and Miss Brown.

What happened was that, just before I was about to meet Miss Brown on the stairwell of her doom after third period, I was informed by my reluctant friend, Mr. Wright, that he had taken Mr. Common to the doctor and it was not at all improbable that that unexemplary man would be absent for the rest of his school day in recovery for injuries sustained while toppling down the stairs—a curious and convenient injury, I might add. There were mere minutes before the time when it was to occur, and in this hasty period of thought I decided to scrap my project. It was a foolish and rash decision, but I had thought to myself that, without Mr. Common, my scheme would be incomplete, partial, perhaps, one might even say, insufficient, like a sexual act without a climax.

After hearing this news, I went to the restroom, hid inside a stall to ease my state of mind, pulled out a razor that I kept hidden within my bag, raised the skirt of my dress and sliced open a section of skin between my legs just below the crotch. A number of other almost healed wounds were scattered in this nondescript portions of skin at the tops of my legs, a region of skin that had the virtue of being concealed by me just closing my legs, something modesty and propriety dictated that I do anyways as a woman of sophistication and respectability. I slapped myself a few times across the cheeks, and a feeling of calm saturated my body and mind.

I was able to recline in my thought during my fourth period World Lit class with Mr. Malek, a handsome man, who I watched, just as many of the girls did. Whenever he ran his hands through his bangs, they would always return to position, parted down the center and curled to the side in two high arches, and as he lectured, he performed this habitual act with that certain dashing youthful vigor that girls went crazy for. I had an unhealthy infatuation with that man, an infatuation that if I were to let it run free I fear would throw me into the arms of love and subject me to his will, an infatuation that, precisely because I so much value my freedom of will, I did not allow myself to be controlled by.

That being said, though, transfixed by this vision, I was able to contemplate the full essence of my situation and I revised my previous decision. I came to believe that it was not Fate’s desire for me to fail in my plans—since Fate is an even more malicious bestower of misfortune than I am—but rather that Fate had other, and perhaps more appropriate plans in store. To be sure, Mr. Common would be the garnish that would have elevated the flavor of my planned embarrassment into the stratosphere, but I still had the meat, and it would be better to dispense my education sooner, since, as is said, the young are more amenable to instruction and Miss Brown was growing older every day and only more set in the permanence of her infectious joy.

The message Fate was trying to send me by means of this setback was undoubtedly that my original plan was excessive, even garish, that my original plan was not the simple sonata I had imagined, but a bombast symphony filled with pomp and ostentation.

The Five Accounts Part 14

I awoke from this dream into darkness and dressed for my morning run in colors that belied my mood, lively and joyful colors, colors of spring and things coming to life. Stepping outside I passed through the streets of suburbia, passing by the indistinguishable houses in which dwelt the mindless masses that only survived this desolate existence by closing their eyes to everything genuine in this life. Their homes were dark, presumably because they still slumbered in their warm beds, coddled in the type of blankets of dreams that they never truly left even when they awoke. I always loved this morning run because it truly seemed to show the true face of this world—empty, dark and lonely—a face that only an hour or so later would be concealed beneath the fake smiles and pretense these people used to deceive themselves into thinking that their endless drudgery was some noble labor.

I had long ago decided that, as one of those privileged to see the world’s unmasked visage—as a place guided by the bleak hand of Fate—that it was my duty to confer that wisdom on others. Alas, it is not enough to just tell people this truth, to write it down or speak it out by the artifice of language. Not only are my words but a vague resemblance of the reality that only my senses—and not even my five senses, but my extra senses—can truly perceive, a reality that dwells as a sensation in my viscera, but, in addition, people absolutely refuse to listen. They are so taken in by their own perception and so convinced of its validity that they cannot hear anything that is otherwise. No, I have to make them feel the blackness of the world, feel it with those extra senses that they have so seldom in their lives had tickled. They need to feel the shame and bleakness and regret that their false lies blanket over.

To do this takes more creativity and more planning than a mere dilettante can afford. It takes effort and dedication. I had already decided on my newest victim for that day: Blair Brown, a girl polluted by the most infectious happiness and joy, a condition all the worse because of the way it has of spreading, travelling from her to every person she touches. It had to be squashed. She had to be embarrassed, shamed, dispirited. I had to make her feel in her gut, what I felt all the time and make her see the true ugly face of Fate.

After my run, I was down into the basement, doing a few miles on the bike, following it with some lunges and crunches on the ball. I took a shower and dressed for class, finishing up my homework before I left.

I packed my backpack with several special gifts for Miss Brown: some duct tape, a small bucket and some condoms. I hopped into my car and drove to pick up Frankie, who seemed irritable enough that it brought a glimmer of happiness to my heart. It was not that I wanted to bring displeasure to Frankie, my dearest friend; rather that I valued truth over happiness, and saw these as indications that she was not weighed down by delusion and could share that enlightened vision with me.

Now, in the course of my observations, it had come to my attention that the prime object of Blair Brown’s affection was one Paul Common, a bright athlete of middling talent and a good-naturedness only too well equaled by Miss Brown. Suffice it to say, that it would be optimal if I could include Mr. Common into my shaming of Miss Brown, since there is nothing compared to being demeaned in front of someone from whom one yearns for admiration.

Though it is somewhat tangential to my narrative, I think it is nonetheless worth mentioning that I had discovered that my ex, Clement Wright was also trying to win the affection of Miss Brown and was doing so with his usual charm and skill—that is to say, his lack thereof. If his own testimony was to be trusted, Mr. Wright was quite infatuated with Miss Brown and would have loved to be able to escort her to the Homecoming dance as the jewel of his evening. But if my own instincts were to be trusted, then I speculated that his scheming brain had landed on some sort of machination independent of affection or love, two emotions of which I suspected Mr. Wright was incapable, some scheme perhaps connected with Miss Brown’s father and his ability to open doors to an athletic scholarship at the University of Connecticut, a door that had started to close since Mr. Wright’s basketball skills had started to falter of late.

The Five Accounts Part 13

Malek told us to write up a description of what we’d done today, explaining how we’d gotten here to detention. He said that we should think of it an act of penitence. That didn’t seem appropriate for me, since I’d been trying to get into detention, but I’ve done the assignment anyways, obviously.

Postscript

I approached his desk with the assignment after I finished and tried to do a little flirting.

It wasn’t easy. When I got there, he said without looking up at me, “Please stay seated Ginny and do your work.”

“I was seeing if you could assist me with the assignment,” I cooed.

“This isn’t an assignment you’re supposed to get help on,” he said, uninterested in being bothered and unusually interested in staring at his computer. I pressed and he finally resigned himself by closing his laptop.

I showed him my story from the beginning, including the details of my morning’s masturbation, watching his reaction as he read it. I touched his arms, even leaned over to touch my breasts to his shoulders and slightly rubbed myself against him as he read.

He wasn’t altogether unresponsive, but he said, after barely a page into it, “This is not an assignment that’s supposed to be read by anyone else; it’s for you alone,” and handed the pages to me.

When I sat down, I spread my legs wide open so that he could see my panties. I wasn’t giving up. I simply had to put more effort into pushing him forward, into coaxing him, opening him up, leading him forward.

Drawing in a reluctant lover can be a real labor of patience. I would have to be persistent, to carefully manipulate his mood. I would also have to know when the time was right, to know when he’d be willing to follow me as I led him to his office to be alone.

I wouldn’t give up. That, at least, I knew.

Account 3

A Day in the Life of an Ordinary Teenager

The1 dream from which I woke up this morning ended with my death. In that clear-sighted dream, I was mauled by a lion, an animal that had imposed itself upon me while I was talking with Frankie. It had climbed upon me, tearing at my skin with its claws and crushing my body within its jaws. It was symbolic, undoubtedly symbolic, a prophecy of my day’s travails, though its true meaning was inaccessible to me at the moment when I woke up, despite my best efforts to find the bottom of it and reveal its secrets.

And It was relevant that Frankie—my dear friend, my loving friend; Frankie, she that had more than a few times pulled me back from the threshold of extinction—was there at this death, the death I had, in my waking life been so many times deprived of by the interventions of this friend and her heartfelt attempts to persuade me from suicide. She was there beside me in this symbolic death and did not save me as she had before. What did that mean? It would take many further days of meditation to reach the core of this mystery, to uncover its many layers of secrets and peel them away.2

Normally, I would not be thankful to the person who had withheld from me that sweet release, that salvation from this awful life, but since her deeds were born of genuine affection and had touched me to the heart, I could not help but be more than thankful, be even indebted with eternal gratitude. She was not just someone that had saved me from suicide, but a friend that had given me a reason to keep on trudging through this trying life. No family member had ever done that for me, no man nor lover, no spirit nor incorporeal being had ever attempted to dissuade me from joining that other place beyond life. Only she, and she had been there at my dreamt-of death. What could it mean?

1. Felice had a habit of misusing big words she obviously found in a Thesaurus and didn’t understand. I have replaced them in all instances with more appropriate terms. –Bob

2. Some additional speculation on this question, which I cut, was included at the end of this account. -Bob