A Legacy of Sorrow (A Violent Agenda)

The seniors of Royal Deacon aren’t as polite as Sacred Heart. Guys think it’s appropriate to catcall me in the hallways. Girls think they can sneer and bitch about me out loud whenever I’m in the vicinity. As long as no one touches me, I don’t really care. They desire me or desire to be me. I get it. I’m exotic to look at. My mother was half asian, so I inherited her almond shaped eyes and tiny stature. I cultivate the mystery by saying little, and not giving a fuck.

I also eavesdrop a hell of a lot. It’s amazing how much more effective listening is when trying to manipulate people than anything else.

A group of girls in the bathroom are talking about Mr. Hans.

Did you know Handsy quit after work last week.

Really? How do you know?

Jessica told me.

How does she know?

She’s fucking the admin intern.

Before I slashed his throat, I encouraged Mr. Hans to give me his phone password. Saturday morning I sent a resignation email to the head of the department, and then I logged into Hans’s social sharing app and posted some photos of the airport lounge and commented about travelling to his dream destination. Seems like my efforts are paying off.

The girls carry on gossiping so I linger a little more.

The admin intern? Craig? No way! Excuse me while I throw up.

I know right. Fuck interns. I want a piece of the new boys.

Which one?

Lorcan Duke, or Dino Vice, whichever. I’m not fussy.

Jude Marques does it for me. Did you see him knock that guy out on the school steps?

I did. And I saw that slut all over him. Vera or whatever her name is.

Verity. I hear she’s fucking all three of them. Greedy bitch.

There’s no more chatter about Mr Hans.

Apparently, he isn’t as interesting as I am.

Satisfied my trail of bloodlust is not going to be discovered, I come out of my cubicle.There’s a hush, but the girls carry on their gossip in low voices discussing how big Jude’s cock is, and if Dino is still single. I take extra long washing and drying my hands. Then I make my way to the theatre where I know I’ll find one of the teachers next on the list—Mr Buxton.

The drama teacher sitting in the third row, ogling teenage girls while they prance about onstage in nothing but a few strips of sheer fabric. I take a seat in a middle row, allowing me to observe my prey.

He’s quite attractive, if you like chocolate brown eyes, heavy-eyebrows, and big hair. He’s definitely popular with the female students. Most of his class are flirting with him as he takes to the stage to correct posture, and take the place of a male lead for some of the more risqué scenes. Shakespeare would turn in his grave at the atrocity Midsummer Night's Dream looks to be right now. He probably thinks he’s doing the girls who fawn after him a favour.

I take mental notes out of habit. He’s left handed. His hands are covered in spots of dried paint although his clothes are immaculate. He likes brunettes, particularly the giggling one with the huge tits and curves. He also can’t stop looking at himself in the reflective surfaces dotted around the stage.

Jarring me out of routine surveillance, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I slip it out to read the message. It’s from Quinn.

I need to see you urgently. Where are you?

I send her one backstraight away.

Why?

Her reply comes through within seconds.

Please come soon. I think he’s going to kill me.

I’ve read enough.