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“Is he crazy?” Josie asked under her breath. “I can’t type that fast.”
“Yes, you can if you put your mind to it,” I told her, already formulating a story that would knock his socks off. Maybe it would fit my odd mood perfectly.
One that held very dark urges.
I smiled at the thought, thankful I was able to type very fast. As I pulled out my laptop, Easton still allowing the information to sink in, I did what I could to avoid looking at him altogether.
“You have one point five hours to complete the assignment. I will not grade you down for spelling mistakes, but the story needs to be dark and gritty, a depiction of being in the mind of a madman.”
“Just like Poe,” Taylor whispered as she pulled up a new Word document.
It was funny how my thoughts were centered on the broadcast I’d heard only minutes before. What would it be like to be the Angel of Death and more important, why had the man found it necessary to kill a young man who held such promise? If he said anything else, I wasn’t paying any attention, becoming absorbed in the piece with ease.
I’d always felt there was a sense of darkness inside me, a moment where I could easily cross the thin and fragile line of right versus wrong.
Even if I’d been a very good girl all my life.
The twenty-fifth shiver of the day tore through me.
Maybe there was just a little evil in me after all.
The time flew by I was so absorbed in the story, able to develop a contrasting voice in the piece, where by day the killer was a kind, gentle man with a heart of gold, but by night he avenged atrocities done to the kind of people he called innocent and deserving. Of course, I couldn’t paint him out to be a hero, but more of an antihero that readers could relate to, even gravitating toward given something that had occurred in their lives.
A tragedy.
A crime scene observed firsthand.
An untimely death.
I could have easily written about my uncle, enough of the stories I’d been told by my older brother returning to my mind. But that could force Easton to ask questions I couldn’t answer. I’d met the man twice, had been forced to sit by his side during a family gathering as he’d leered at me, asking way too personal questions about my life. If I had a boyfriend. Even if I enjoyed older men. It had seemed creepy at the time, not that I’d told my mother. She and her brother had been estranged for years, only coming together when my other aunt had begged my mama to bring us to the family reunion.
Only six months later, accusations were made, my uncle arrested for the horrific murders of nine people, dismembered body parts found on the same property where we’d had a barbeque. All of us had been sick, my mother cutting every tie to her side of the family. The humiliation had been terrible, our entire family crucified in the press. My mother had come close to having a nervous breakdown.
They’d also lost the ranch because no one had wanted to buy any product from them. The nightmare had been traumatic, something I’d tried hard to forget. But I had to admit, being told far too many of the gruesome details was helping me paint a better picture of my antihero.
As I reminisced about what I’d heard regarding the investigation, I wondered if the Angel of Death also took trophies as my uncle had done. No one had talked about that with regard to my uncle. It was a piece of evidence they didn’t want let out to the public.
Sighing, I shut down that part of my life as my mother had insisted all her children do. This was my story. My little foray into something dark and ominous. Just because I wanted to be a horror author didn’t mean I had any of the same psychotic tendencies as my uncle. I was just… creative.
Plus, I wanted the man standing like some godlike figure to realize what he’d fucked up. As I read it over one last time, skimming over half of it, I gave myself a mental high-five.
I was thrilled with my work, so much so my heart continued to race as I prepared to hit send to Easton’s email. I’d written five thousand words in the time allotted. When I lifted my head, I realized I’d taken a little bit longer, no other student left in the lecture hall.
However, Professor Easton Saint was, his eyes pinned on where I was sitting. I felt as if he was doing more than just undressing me with his eyes. He was dressing me up to be his plaything, including a ball gag and a pair of handcuffs.
Clothing not allowed.
I closed the lid on my laptop, doing my best to act nonchalant. Of course the man had to make it all but impossible for me to slip out unnoticed. God. What if he issued a failing grade?
I knew where he lived. I’d break into his house and rip out his eyeballs.
At least I could almost smile even thought my teeth were chattering as I shoved my computer into my bag. I was determined not to highlight the shame running through me like wildfire, so I walked slowly, almost believing he was going to allow me to walk out without speaking to me.
“Ms. Adams, I’d like a word with you before you go.”
His voice was even deeper than two nights before, huskier in a way that forced hundreds of butterflies into my stomach. I could pretend I hadn’t heard him but somehow, I had a bad feeling he’d seek to discipline me again if I did.
I moved toward his desk, still managing to hold my head high. “Yes, Mr. Saint?”
