Death Threat

(Josie Sayz: This is a piece that I wrote for a ‘Life Writing’ module at university. Apart from my lecturer, I have only shared this with one other person before. This is a true story.)

Death Threat

“You’re paranoid.” Maddison and Kirsten laughed, while Abigail gave me another lecture. “No one’s at the window, we’re on the second floor.” I glared at them. They were always making fun of my constant worrying. That someone, anyone was lurking… watching… waiting to get me. So what if I was worried? They’d be sorry when something happened, and they weren’t prepared.

Shrugging off their laughter, I made my way up the next flight of stairs to my IT classroom. Swinging the classroom door open, I expected to be met by the warm smile of Ms. Sadler, but instead Miss Smith took her place. Forcing a smile in her direction, I took my seat at my computer – one row from the back. Our regular teacher Mr. Kilbride was teaching at the connecting school in Gloucester. He had been teaching there on a Thursday afternoon all half term, so we had been having cover teachers. Usually we had Ms. Sadler, but today it was Miss Smith.

As my computer powered up, I took out my IT instruction booklet and flicked it open to my next assignment: Assignment Five. While my dinosaur of a computer loaded its user settings, I glanced across the room at the rest of my class. They were only on Assignment Two, they wasted all of their time playing games and browsing the internet. Not wanting anyone to know that I was ahead of them on the assignments, I kept a low profile.

After Miss Smith took the register, a hand hit me on the shoulder. I turned around. “What assignment are you on?” whispered Ellie, who sat behind me.

“Three,” I replied.

“Will you send me what you did for the first two?” she asked. “I won’t copy.”

“No,” I told her, turning back around. I knew that coping was exactly what she was going to do.

“Caitlin,” she whispered. Miss Smith glanced up at us from her computer. I lowered my head and began typing. “Caitlin,” Ellie hissed. Again, I ignored her. “Caitlin!” BANG! Something thumped me on the head.

“Ooh!” Simon shouted out. “Did you see that?” Gripping my head tight I clasped my eyes shut. No I did not see that.

“What?” Niall asked.

“She just hit Caitlin over the head.”

People started whispering. Slouching in my chair, I felt my face heat up, embarrassed by the room’s conversation topic. It’s strange, my head hardly hurt until people took interest in it… now it throbbed. Noticing the commotion, Miss. Smith came over to me. Kneeling to my height, she asked, “Are you alright?” With a hand gripped upon my head I nodded. As she returned to her desk, Ellie hissed, “Send me the work,” yanking one of my pigtails.

“Ouch!” Jack gasped, sensing my pain.

“She’s terrorising her,” Niall laughed. I pulled my pigtails around my neck and rubbed my head. Ignoring everyone, I continued my assignment.

“Caitlin, are you okay?” Simon asked. I nodded. He didn’t really care; he just wanted to make sure that he was a part of the game being played – with me as the bait. THUMP! Something hit my head again.

Everyone burst out laughing. I knew they were laughing at me. They had to be laughing at me. What else was there to laugh at? My vision clouded as liquid filtered into my eyes. I blinked repeatedly, to ensure that I did not cry. “Ellie fell off her chair!” I heard someone shout. The laughter continued.

“She’s drunk!” someone added.

My thoughts exploded. The pounding spiralled ideas, notions around in a circumbendibus. I had to shut myself off from everyone. Their voices loudened. Their laughter loudened. Computers hummed. Fingers typed. Trap pads clicked. My heart drummed fiercely, above the room’s ruckus. My ears thudded. Voices grew louder. The drumming grew louder. My chest expanded. Contracted. Expanded. Contracted. Expanded. Contracted.

*

I stood outside the classroom, leaning against the wall, with Miss Smith beside me. “What’s going on?” she asked. How did I get here? I didn’t remember leaving my chair. My cheeks were wet. I’d been crying. Sniffing I shrugged. I didn’t know. How was I supposed to know what was going on? I just kept being hit over the head.

“Someone hit me over the head,” I heard myself say.

“Who?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.” To be honest, I didn’t. There were five people sat behind me, any of them could have been the culprit. I wouldn’t put it past Lewis – he would probably do it for no other reason than amusement and to get attention for hitting someone with ginger hair.

The classroom door swung open. Ellie flew out, threw herself by my side, hugging my arm. “Go back inside,” Miss Smith ordered.

“But I’m worried about Caitlin, Miss. She’s crying and someone keeps hitting her over the head.” Leaving us outside, Miss Smith returned to the classroom. Once she had disappeared Ellie gripped my arm. “If you tell anyone it was me, I’ll kill you…” she sneered daggering her nails into my arm. “I’ll kill you Caitlin. I’ll be waiting for you after school. I’ll come after you.” Staring into her eyes, I swallowed hard. “I’m serious… you’re dead.”

Back inside the classroom, Miss Smith returned her attention to her laptop. I held my assignment guide up to my face and began typing. Typing what? Letters. Words. Phrases. Anything. Nothing. The sentences made no sense. My head made no sense. “Ellie, stop harassing Caitlin,” Simon warned her. Turning my head slightly, I saw her return the computer keyboard to the desk.

“I haven’t done nothing!” she protested.

“Well then why were you holding the keyboard over her head?” asked Lewis. Miss Smith glanced up from her screen.

“I wasn’t!” Ellie whaled.

“We all saw you.” Miss Smith rose from her chair, looking in our direction.

“I’ll kill you,” Ellie whispered into my ear, her breath contaminating my neck. As I turned to face her, she staggered past my desk to the classroom door, flung it open and sped off down the corridor.

*

Again, I found myself outside of the classroom. Miss Smith made me explain to her everything. Between bursts of hyperventilation, I managed to retell what I thought had happened. As I finished, she ran back into the classroom to retrieve a packet of tissues, piece of paper and pen. After scrawling a message onto a piece of paper, she handed it to me. “Mr. Llewellyn’s on lunch duty in the Hall. I want you to go and give this note to him, which explains everything that you’ve just told me.” My hand hesitated, refusing to grip the paper. “It’s okay,” she said. “You aren’t telling Mr. Llewellyn, I am.”

With the note clasped tightly in my hands, I crept down the IT staircase. As I reached the bottom, I checked to make sure that every direction was clear, before continuing. As I turned down the corridor towards the Hall, my heart’s loud drumming returned. Holding my fist against my rib cage, I held it securely in place.

I could see people. There were people in the Hall. What if she was there? If she was, she’d know that I had told someone. She’d know that I had told someone and that they had made me go to see the Deputy Head teacher and then she would kill me. My feet stopped. I stared at them, but they wouldn’t move. What was wrong with them?

Looking up at the Hall’s entrance, I saw a familiar face – my best friend, James. As he walked in my direction, my body began to relax slightly. “Are you alright?” he asked, placing a hand upon my arm. My eyes shifted from his, down to the piece of paper in my hand and back to him again. I could feel my bottom lip quivering. If there was one person I could tell, then it was him. We had known each other forever.

“Hey James!” a voice shouted. Flinching, I clasped James’ hand and turned to face where the voice had come from. It was Craig. Jerking his head in the direction that I had just come from, he asked, “You comin’ playground?”

“Yeah,” he replied, ignoring me. Leaving me. Before I could even find my voice, he was gone. I was alone.

*

Entering the Hall, everyone turned to me. They knew. They had to know. They all knew that I told Miss Smith, that I thought about telling James and that I was on my way to tell Mr. Llewellyn and this was going to be the last time they’d see me alive, because I was going to die.

Having made my way through the mass of bodies to the front of the Hall, I handed Mr. Llewellyn the piece of paper. I stared at him as he read it. His eyes widened. The bushes above them rose. His brow creased. Lowering the note, he searched the room for another teacher. “Wait here,” he told me. Clambering off the stage, he caught the arm of another teacher, commanding them to take over lunch duty. Without speaking, he led me out of the Hall and into his office, leaning against his walking stick.

“Do you know where this girl went?” he asked me, handing me his box of tissues. I shook my head. A search party was sent out. Teachers searched the school, some outside. Sitting at Mr. Llewellyn’s desk I watched several cars pull out of the car park. The door was locked. I was alone.

*

Swaying from left to right on Mr. Llewellyn’s spinning chair, I twirled the tissue box around. The box’s pink flowers were too feminine for him. Maybe the box was our Head teacher’s instead. They were quite a nice pink, dark, and not too girly. Maybe they were the sort of flowers that people would bring to my funeral. Would anyone turn up to my funeral? Maddison, Abigail and Kirsten would, wouldn’t they? And James. James would be there. What about Mr. Llewellyn? He would have to; he’s the Deputy Head teacher. I wonder what they’ll say… “Caitlin, she was a quiet girl, a good girl… too bad for her that it cost her her life.” If I hadn’t cared about Ellie copying my work, then maybe I wouldn’t have died. But wait a minute… I’m not dead yet.

I checked my watch. Three minutes had passed since I last checked it. I thought of making a will. Who would I leave what to? Maddison always wanted my spotty umbrella; she could have it. And I could leave Abigail my pencil case – it would match her bag. I searched for a pen and some paper.

I checked my watch. Two minutes had passed since I last checked it. I’d been in Mr. Llewellyn’s office for almost two hours. Had they found Ellie? Had she threatened to kill me? Had she killed them? She must have done, that’s why no one had been back for me. Ellie had gone mad and killed all of them. She killed everyone.

There was a knock on the door. I flinched. “Caitlin…” a voice croaked, before opening the door. Mr. Llewellyn’s head appeared in the doorway. “We’ve found her.” He perched himself on the edge of his desk and explained to me the events that had taken place during my incarceration. Two teachers had found Ellie hiding in a bush, outside my house. She knew they were looking for her. They had brought her back and she was sitting in the interview room. She had not meant to threaten me, Mr. Llewellyn explained. She was not herself – had been pressured by friends into drinking alcohol. “She wants to apologise,” he told me. But before I saw her, he wanted to make it clear to me first that she would not harm me.

He brought her in. She was crying. “I’m sorry Caitlin,” she bawled. “I never meant it. I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sorry. She was sorry that she got caught, but not for what she said.

“Ellie’s a good girl,” Mr. Llewellyn explained after she was gone. “She’s not going to hurt you, so don’t you worry.” I stared at him nodding. “It was the alcohol.” Again, I nodded. He escorted me back to lesson.

It’s funny. The next time I thought I saw a shadowing figure through the window, Abigail, Maddison and Kirsten thought twice about laughing. It shows that I was right all along. Even now, I double check the locks on doors and windows before I leave, I never walk home the same way two days running and I’ll always walk the wrong way if there is someone behind me. Just in case.

- Josie -

Playing the Game

(Josie Sayz: This is a quick little flash fiction piece that came to mind on my way home from work today. It is a true story… one based on skill, tactics and love.)

Ever since I was sixteen, I have lived by my motto, “Life’s a game, a boardgame. Play it well enough and you just might be one of it’s finest players, but neglect your chances and who knows where you’ll end up.”  Almost twelve years later and I still march to the beat of the same drum.

For almost four years, I have been playing a game of chess. I met my opponent by chance, in the middle of summer 2015. I was a little weary at first. I don’t usually set aside my main games for complete strangers, but for some reason this seemed different. He reminded me of a friend’s old opponent; their game ended badly for the both of them. I was worried if I involved myself with such a player that I too may find myself in over my head too fast. Stepping into the playing field, I kept the upper hand.

My opponent played his pieces well. The cheeky smile and gleam in his eye sparkled like nothing I had ever seen before. He was charming his way through the game, or so he thought. I held back. Every time he stepped too close, I raised my defences. I was in control. I held back, assessing his next move. Trying to figure out how he intended to play.

A little over a week in, I let my guard down. A shaky step and I let him take, what some may call, an insignificant pawn. I did not mind. It was all a part of the plan. I was easing into my opponent’s way of play… and I liked it. In the beginning, we played every day – each making our move. Observing one another. Plotting our next step.

Six weeks in, I fell right for him. He took something from me. A piece that I had never let go of before. It’s a move I’d never done. A piece I’d never lost. It’s his now. He owns it… that little piece of me.

From that moment on, I let my defence down. I was happy to play just for the company, not the competition. We continued with our daily play for a little over eighteen months, our pieces dancing around one another, neither of us taking the lead. For the first time in my life, I felt comfortable. It wasn’t competitive, but a friendly, intimate game. Little did I know, that was all about to change.

Days dragged into weeks. I played my piece and waited… and waited for a response. He’d show up, make a move and then disappear for weeks at a time.  I’d respond immediately, as I always had done, but he seemed to creep further and further away. He was beginning to lose interest – or at least it felt that way to me.

Soon the weeks turned to months. I no longer understood his method. I could no longer predict his every move. I watched. I waited. The longing for his next move increased my anxiety. I wanted it. I needed it. I hungered for it. I clung to his every word that he would get back to me when he had the time. This was obviously not his number one priority; I guess he did not see that it was mine.

I clung onto hope. I hoped to see him again. I hoped he would make his next move. I hoped that he would continue – that we could continue with our game. My positivity, excitement and longing for more kept me going. Everyday I told myself, “Today’s the day he’ll get back to me.” He rarely did.

A whole year went by without him making a single adjustment to the board. My anxiety continually spiralled around, in a circumbendibus, in my stomach. Still I waited, hoping and praying that he had not forgotten our game. That he would come back to continue with what we had started.

His time away from the playing field showed. Out of the blue, he made a bold move. A risky move. Having put my life on hold for this single moment, I leapt at the chance to swipe the upper hand.

Silence.

I heard nothing. Nothing for weeks. Then without notice, boom! We were back to playing daily. This time I did not let my guard down. I did not want to lull my opponent into a thinking that everything was okay. That things were as they were – where he would make an advance and I would happily dance around it. My tactics had sharpened. I wanted more than just a bit of fun.

I advanced. He disappeared. Abandoned the game. That was three months ago. Even during our silences before, he still sent message that he was, indeed, still in the game. This time however… nothing.

Nothing that is, until last weekend. Out of the blue, he shuffled one remaining pawn forwards. Hovering in the shadows, he awaited my next move. Stepping away from the table, I have been deep in thought since. There are two paths to take, but which is the right one?

Over the years, his moves have become so weak that checkmate is in sight. I could end things right now… with one simple move. I could end the game that we have been playing for almost four years. I could be free from it. Free from the agonising waiting. Free from the anxieties that have arisen from it. Free from the mental abuse that delves deep within, possibly unknown to my opponent that he has caused. But do I want to end it? Am I ready to end it? This is an opponent like no other. I long for this game to last. I thrive upon his movements, his advances, his counter moves.

I have the upper hand. There are still places for me to move… ways that he cannot get to me… advances to make. I am no longer hiding in defence. I am ready to pounce. To make my move. To navigate the board. But what if I do and he disappears again? I am tired of waiting. I am tired of letting someone else control my life. If I end things now, I can start again. Find another opponent… but do I want to?

In my ideal world, my opponent and I will keep circling each other. Dancing over each other’s pieces until only our king’s remain in stalemate… harmonised by the game. Warmed by each other’s friendship. Satisfied with the final result. I can’t go on waiting and waiting again. Waiting weeks and months for him to make his move. Not again. I would rather make one final blow. Checkmate! One cannot leave a game unfinished. Every game needs an ending. But what if he’s serious this time? He says he is, but he said that last time… and the time before that… and the time before that.

The ball’s in my court. It’s my call. It’s my move. Do I end things? Do I call checkmate? I have the advantage. I can call it in one move. One finally meeting and it’s over. Or do I keep playing… avoiding the destruction, so that I can continue to live on playing my opponent, slowly, but surely until we reach a peaceful stalemate?

It’s my move.

- Josie -