Eli Whitcomb

one continuous note, and my eyes catch a glimpse of the heart monitor where all I see is a straight line. The unending beep adds to the tune still warbling from the CD player, twisting into a horrible cacophony that distorts the air around me as I listen to the melody of my suffering.

Unforgivable

Eli Whitcomb

Why? That is the question we all ask ourselves when we are given a task that isn’t really necessary to a certain person. Why must I do this task? Why am I the one doing this? Couldn’t someone else do it? Those were the questions I asked when that man... when that blade... when it was placed in my hand, I looked at him with a horrified expression and then, I said it. The most terrifying moment in my life raged upon me just as the word escaped my lips. Why-DON’T YOU DARE QUESTION ME! Just do as I say, and no one gets hurt. I still remember it, clear as day.

That catastrophe all started when I got called down to the office during 5th period. Cassie Alisando, please come to the office. I stood up; the gazes, stares, and glares of other students piercing the back of my neck. Murmurs and whispers filled my ears and the classroom around me. “What did she do? Why her? I told you something like this is going to happen.” I picked up my things. My backpack and my pass are the only things I have as I walk down the hallway towards the office. As I get there, the vice principal is waiting for me. My eyes start to sting, salt blurring my vision. “Follow me.” Her tone was formal, with a glimpse of sympathy. I walk with her down to one of the meeting rooms in the back. I expected my parents, the principal, and the counselor to be there, but instead, there was a man that I never met in my entire life.

“You’re Cassandra Alisando?” He had a Russian accent, and was wearing a black suit with a red tie. I couldn't find any facial details of him, the hat did its job covering his face. “I hear that you have a party that you’re attending at this address.” He handed me a white envelope that hadn’t been sealed yet. I took out the piece of paper inside and began to read it before the man spoke again.

“Out loud.” I took a deep breath and parted my lips to speak. “Dear Cassie A, the junior prom after-party is taking place at 615 Chauncey Hill Rd. Please email to staceyw@wl.k12.in.us as soon as April 3rd, 2021. Make sure that you have a ride home in case you plan to go home early. Hope to see you there, Alice Baxeton, Student Council.” I looked up at him. He seemed pleased. “So, why I summoned you is to tell you that, at this party, lots of secrets from my business have been taken by one of these students. I do not care who stole them.”

Then, from the inside of his coat, he pulled out a knife. The blade was made out of pure obsidian while the handle was crafted with pure gold adorned with black leather. “I want you to exterminate every last one, mercy or no.” I gazed at the knife, then at the man. Something about it didn’t seem right about the knife. I started to speak with a frightened tone. “Sir, why-” He slammed his fist on the table, startling me. If that was meant to silence me, it worked.

“If you aren’t willing to comply,” he opened the briefcase that rested on the table. Resting inside, there was a bomb. The clock only gave the victim two minutes to get out, which was barely enough time to evacuate the entire school, teachers, students, and all. “You won’t be the only one losing your life today.” He held the remote in one hand, the knife in the other. I realized that I had no other choice.

“I’ll do it.” The man closed the briefcase. He then proceeded to cloak the knife in red silk and handed it to me. I grabbed my things and the knife and walked out quickly, but I heard him say, “Good girl.”

I had chosen a dress that had a swirl of purple and white, the hem flowing down to my knees. A lovely golden purse complimented the look. My hair flowed down to my shoulders, giving me that Southern belle look. I gave a twirl in the mirror and smiled. My reflection, oddly, wasn’t. In the reflection, my dress and shoes had splatters of blood and my hair was a mess. I was wearing an old fashioned masquerade mask. But the thing that stood out the most was that I was holding the knife the man gave me, and it too, was dripping with blood. I checked my purse with a panicked feeling growing in my chest. Of course, it was still there, wrapped in red silk, in my purse. I shook my head, my eyes meeting the reflection again.

The ominous me was still there, looking at me with her crazy empty eyes. Instead of frowning, she was grinning at me, manically. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit that criminals wear. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply, slowing my heart rate. I opened my eyes, and this time, she was gone. Only my scared self reflected back in the mirror. I got up, brushed my hair and dress, and walked confidently out of my room.

When I got to the house, the party was in full swing. Blacklights were in every room of the house. A disco ball hung like a chandelier in the living room. There were bottles of different kinds of champagne and wine. Loud music blasted throughout the house, nearly obilerating my eardrums. Confetti was everywhere. I did help myself to a glass of wine, and told myself not to tell my mom that I had alcohol over at the house. I was leaning

up against the wall and was casually watching everyone. T here were many types of people, especially at a prom after-party: the gossip girls, the alcoholics, the true lovers, the football players, the party gamers, the DJs, the boys, and a whole lot more. I wasn’t any of those stereotypes. I watched the girls squealing over their prom dresses and the guys drinking champagne and commenting about the girls that they chose and how good-looking they were. I noticed that there was a tray full of masquerade masks, so I decided to take one and put it on.

Hours go by of the same hype pop music on repeat. People are probably making out at this point. I had removed the mask earlier, for it was very uncomfortable. The prom king and queen are talking with each other about their future lives. Everything is boring to my appeal. I’m starting to get tired. I still don’t know if it was too much wine or if I managed to listen in to a conversation accidentally, but I heard someone, or something, calling my name. Cassie. Cassie. I breathed in deeply, trying to calm myself down.

Suddenly, I saw a figure. I couldn’t tell if it was a person or an otherworldly creature, but I saw it. When I laid eyes on the thing, a burst of pain ran through my head. Although the pain was unbearable, the creature began to become more clearer on what it really was. It was a woman, shrouded in a black cloak. Long black hair. She looked like she was hovering above the ground, but I couldn’t really tell. She was coming closer to me. My breathing became heavy, although my heart was going a mile a minute. A horrific grin spread across the woman’s face. “Let me help you, little one.” Her voice sounded so soothing, like a hypnotic gaze of a snake. Too hypnotic, almost. Her bony hand reached for my head, and darkness consumed all colors that made up my vision.

“FREEZE! PUT YOUR HANDS UP, NOW!” I jerked my head up at the sound. Bright lights surrounded me, flashing in a familiar pattern. Red, blue, red, blue. I didn’t move. Part of it was out of fear, and the other part was the overtaking spirit of curiosity. I knew who they were, but why were they yelling commands at me like I’m a criminal? I then looked down at my dress.

I muffled a cry of horror when I realized what was waiting for me. Blood soaked my dress, turning the original colors into different shades of red. I was holding that knife the man had given me, and it was drenched in blood as well. The insane part of me wanted to say Don’t worry, I’m dressed up as a character from 50 Shades of Red! But then, I’d be lying. I immediately started to feel dizzy, so I decided to rest my head in my hand.

Soft skin brushed against my hand, as well as….paper mache? That masquerade mask, how did it get back out? I moved my hand farther down my cheek. The panic attacked my head and heart when I felt thread digging into my skin, along with dried blood.

I felt a surge of anger through me. That woman I saw before I blacked out, she must’ve done this to me. Before I could react, electricity was coursing through my veins and once more, my vision was consumed by darkness.

I don’t know how long it's been since I’ve been living in this prison. I would’ve graduated high school at this point, but I never did. Time did seem to stop after all. I sit on my mattress in my cell. They never put two inmates in the same cell, that would lead to a bloodbath, one inmate fighting the other inmate, until either they themselves were killed or they successfully killed the other, adding one more murder to their charges, which them more closer to the day that they enter those two rooms, when they sit in those two chairs.

Footsteps. Probably I’m having another flashback. More footsteps. Loud and quick, echoing down the hall. My heart rate is raging in my chest. I can only expect the worst. I close my eyes.

“Inmate F-0416, step out of your cell.” I didn’t move.

“Inmate F-0416, step out of your cell, now.” I stood up, and began to walk towards the metal barred doors of my cell, obeying my orders. Until the mirror caught my eye. Mirrors were always a weakness that I couldn’t resist. Looking back at the reflective glass that stood before me, the visual of me now didn’t shock me. I felt like I deserved every part of me that was real. Back then, I had luscious wavy brown hair. Freckles had dotted my pale pink cheeks, complementing my calming smile. Dark brown eyes gave the impression that I was a good listener. But, that was in the past. I was younger then.

Now, I had indented cheeks, my face similar to that of a ghost’s. The waviness had become straight, long, and some reason, almost greyish black. I had become a thin person in an oversized orange jumpsuit. My eyes glowed like embers due to my now amber eyes. Black and red liquid oozed from my sewn-on mask, drying and harding almost instantly. My mouth had a permanent smile, both from my mental state and carved in.

I always joked with the other inmates that I would become a ghost if my marked day ever came to pass. But they never answered me. Probably because of their mixed perceptions of what I’d become to them. Now,

with the man in blue standing in front of my cell, it’s as if I wanted this to happen.

“Let’s go, F-0416.” The harshness in his voice didn’t bother me. Back then, it would stress me out. Instead that reminded me of something. No, not something. More like someone. If I hadn’t recognized the tone, I might as well have, because the tone reminded me of that man of the mafia who put me here to begin with. I trudge out of my cell with a psychotic grudge that even I don’t know who it’s for. I now see that the man in blue isn’t alone. He’s got armed guards with him. “Today’s the day, isn’t it?” I croak. The man doesn’t say anything, just walking away. One of the guards tapped me on the shoulder with his gun, nudging me on. I stood there, but soon I moved forward.

Later, I sat down in a wooden chair. I knew what this was. I’ve seen this countless times, over and over. I don’t cry nor plead to do it on a different day. I sat just there with a blank face. There were three steps to this process. First, the last meal. Anything you want, they’ll bring it to you on a plate. They then asked me the question that made my stomach roar with hunger.

“So, what will be your last meal?” I sat and thought about it. I’ve been given different kinds of food by the guards, but this is the only and last chance that I will eat my favorite foods, so I will have to make it count. After a while, my raspy voice emerged out of the silence. “One sirloin steak, two tilapia filets, macaroni and cheese, and a beer glass full of root beer.” The other person who was listening walked out, slamming the door behind him. Exactly 30 minutes later, the same person returned with a gigantic plate. On it was the food that I ordered.

After you eat, someone will walk into the room and sit down in front of you. That’s the second step, the last recording. A couple minutes later, a reporter, a cameraman, and a guy holding an overhead mike entered the room, along with a couple of armed guards. I looked down at the table, my face still blank. After this, I will sit in what the other inmates call, “the lightning chair.” And that will be the last thing I ever experience. The electricity jolting through me as the switch releases 1,750 volts, and I can’t escape because I’m strapped down to the chair.

“So, you’re the 50 Shades of Red girl?” The man in front of me speaks. His voice sounds nostalgic, which is supposed to be a part of his job as a reporter. I nod. I know that the camera’s on and recording. The mike is hovering over me like a demon trying to whisper things to do in my ear. “So, do you remember why you killed everyone in that house back then?” I