Mary Sue One: Goody Two Shoes

He glared at her through the thick Plexiglas window. She was the woman he hated most in the world, the woman he would most like to kill. On his side of the window as well as hers, two guards stood to keep the peace.

“Daemon,” she murmured through the telephone. He heard her voice come through his receiver. “How are you?”

“I’m in the worst shape of my life; what does it look like?” Daemon growled. He wanted so much to hang up the phone and leave her sitting there, but he knew this might be his only chance to get an explanation from her. “Maribel, why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Why did you kill Darla?”

Smiling, Maribel twirled one of her red curls. “Why would you say something like that?”

“Stop denying it, Maribel.” Daemon felt his anger rising. “Why did you kill her?”

Maribel dropped the curl and leaned forward a little so that her nose was barely an inch from the Plexiglas. “If I can’t have you, then no one can,” Maribel whispered into the telephone. “And what better way to keep you from escaping than to frame you for your girlfriend’s murder?” She grinned.

“So you did kill her,” Daemon answered just as quietly. “You killed my Darla.”

Maribel shrugged, leaning back in the chair. A smirk slipped onto her face. “Maybe, maybe not. But I wasn’t the one convicted for it, now was I?”

Daemon threw the telephone into the window, cracking it. Screaming, he lunged at the window, slamming his fists into the only thing separating his hands from her throat. The guards on his side of the window grabbed him and pulled him backwards. He struggled violently against them, thrashing and yelling.

I’ll get you back, Maribel! No matter what it takes, I’m going to get revenge!

Maribel watched the guards drag him out of the room and through a heavy metal door. She smirked, stood, and the guards escorted her out of the jailhouse.

I combed my wavy, golden brown hair back into a ponytail, making sure that every last strand was in place. Back then, everyone was envious of my hair; it had just the right amount of wave, and every silky tendril was laced with three different shades of gold. When I stood in the sun, it shone brilliantly. It was about an average length, falling just over my breasts.

I looked into the mirror, making sure that my makeup hadn’t smeared or smudged. My skin was clear, so the small amount of blush I applied to my rosy cheeks was for color, not for hiding flaws. I applied a bit more mascara to my long, thick lashes to bring out the hazel color of my eyes. While in dim light, they appeared light brown, in the light, they took on a sort of green color, and in the sun, there were specks of gold. Quickly spreading some shimmering lip gloss on my plump lips, I hurried to my closet to find a heavy jacket.

I pulled on a long black coat, tying the belt around my slender waist. Having been blessed with a tall stature and long legs, all of my friends believed I could be a model. I always laughed them off, telling them that I didn’t have the curves to do it. They always thought I was joking.

I tucked my camera snugly into my messenger bag and tugged high leather boots onto my feet. Then, I let myself out of my dorm room and hurried out of the building into the frosty air.

“Mary Sue!”

I turned. There stood one of my best friends, Christian. Although he was bundled up in a hoodie bearing the Triot University emblem and a heavy winter coat, I could still make out his lean but muscular swimmer’s body. He hurried over to me, his breath coming out in small puffs.

“Hey, Chris,” I said with a light smile. “What’s up?”

“Where are you headed?” Christian asked. “I was just gonna go grab dinner. You wanna come?”

“I would love to, but I really can’t,” I answered regretfully. “I have to go finish off this photo project… I’m studying the architecture of that old building on the edge of campus, and I haven’t gotten enough pictures yet.”

“It’s not due until after Winter Break,” Christian stated with a dry smile. “Overachieving again, are we?”

I laughed. If anyone knew me well, it would be Christian. We’d known each other since high school, and he knew of my almost flawless school record. I’d only gotten less than an A once… and that was in third grade. He always joked that I was an obsessive overachiever.

“Not overachieving, just passionate!” I said, rubbing my nose, which was starting to become numb. “I want to do well in all my classes, even though I’m a poly sci major. I’ll see you later, though, okay?”

Christian shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “Oh, be careful, though. Supposedly some murderer escaped from jail a week ago.”

“Oh, right. Didn’t they say he was trying to flee the state? That would mean he’s going south, right?”

“Beats me,” Christian answered. “Anyway, the jail isn’t that far from here. So just be careful.”

“Of course,” I grinned. I waved to him and began walking toward the edge of campus, humming my favorite song, “Defying Gravity” from the musical, Wicked. In thinking about musicals, I wondered about the theater department’s auditions for the next musical, My Fair Lady. I was thinking of going out for a part, Eliza Doolittle in particular. I made a mental note to get information about auditions.

I reached the old, dilapidated building within minutes. It was made of gray bricks, most of which had been overtaken by the ivy that erupted from the snow. The roof peaked twice, and beneath each peak was a stained glass window. The other windows were either broken or boarded off. On top, the chimney perched awkwardly, squatting stiffly in the snow.

Reaching numbed fingers into my bag, I pulled out the camera. I looked through the eyepiece and slowly turned the knob to focus the image. I took a few pictures from the outside, but I didn’t feel satisfied. Spotting the stained glass window, I felt an urge to take a picture from the inside. Flicking my golden hair over my shoulder, I trudged through the snow and dead weeds to the front door.

The door was made of rotting gray wood, nearly falling off of its rusty hinges. The doorknob was completely gone as far as I could tell, and there was a gaping hole where it used to be. Like the rest of the house, the door was engulfed by ensnaring ivy that stretched its long fingers past the doorframe and gripped the bricks above it. It took a bit of effort, but I eventually managed to force the door open without breaking it.

Somehow, inside the house was colder than outside, and cobwebs blanketed the walls and floors. Some drifts of snow had found their way through the broken windows and had collected on the rotting wood in heaps. The room was large with two doors—one directly to my left and one across the room. Slowly, I stepped into the middle of the room and took a picture. Then, I made my way to the far door to try to find my way upstairs.

I forced the next door open, releasing a shower of dust and wood splinters. Somehow, I managed to evade the onslaught of dirt that fell so that not a speck landed on my pristine hair and clothes.

The stairs loomed a few steps away, spiraling upward into darkness. After testing the stairs to make sure they wouldn’t break, I climbed up to the top only to be faced with another door.

This one, though, was seated comfortably on its hinges, and the doorknob gleamed gold. Gripping the knob in my hand, I opened the door.

Right in front of me, the shimmering stained glass window allowed pale sunlight to flood the room. The colored light danced on the crumbling wooden walls. I raised my camera and began to focus it. I took one picture with a small click.

“What are you doing here?”

Startled, I dropped my camera, which landed on the wooden floor with a shatter. My eyes flew to the source of the voice.

At first, I wanted to scream, but somehow, I managed to hold it in. He looked almost like a skeleton. His face was as blanched as bone, protruding cheekbones gave his face a shadowed look, and his eyes sunk into round sockets. A head taller than me and sinewy, he looked like he was literally flesh and bone. Because of this, his tattered gray clothes hung off of him loosely like a mannequin’s. Matted and tangled black hair fell into his cold black eyes and stuck up at the same time. But what really shocked me was that he was wearing handcuffs and shackles, which, I supposed, had been on him for so long that they’d caused sores and calluses on his wrists and ankles.

I struggled for the right words. I looked down and saw the glass of my camera’s lens splashed onto the toes of my boots.

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t know… I didn’t know you lived here; I thought—”

“I don’t live here.” His voice was sand.

I waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. He didn’t move. He watched me, standing there, the hazy sunlight glimmering on his pale skin.

I swallowed and knelt to pick up the pieces of my camera’s lens.

“I… I’m really sorry for trespassing,” I said as I picked up the pieces of glass, which kept slipping from my shaking fingers. “I just… thought this house was…”

“I just told you I don’t live here,” he said quietly. “So it’s not trespassing.”

I looked up at him, brushing some of my golden hair out of my eyes. “So then why are you here?”

He smiled coldly, almost mockingly.

“Now now, I’m sure a young girl like you wouldn’t want to hear that story.”

“I have time,” I shrugged, gesturing to the broken glass.

He walked over to me, knelt down, and aggressively pulled my face toward his with both hands. I gasped. He glared into my eyes frostily. I could feel his cold fingertips around my jaw.

“If you tell anyone about me being here, I’ll kill you,” he said. Each word was crisp and firm.

My eyes widened. …Escaped from jail. I took in a shallow breath.

“I promise I won’t tell,” I stammered. I waited for him to release me, but he held me there for a few more moments, as though weighing the worth of my words.

He released me suddenly, slowly retreating. “What’s your name?”

“Mary Sue Caroll,” I answered with some hesitation.

“You look like it,” he replied, sitting on the chilly wood floor. His chains clinked heavily. “And I suppose you’re a little goody two shoes, too.” His thin lips turned up in a half smile, half sneer.

I shivered – whether it was from the cold of the room or the cold of his gaze, I didn’t know. “I… I guess you could say that,” I mumbled. “But I don’t like to think of it that way.” I continued picking up the shattered glass.

“So you’ve never… been to jail or anything like that?”

I looked up at him, startled. “No,” I said. “And I don’t plan on it.”

His eyes narrowed. “I didn’t either, but look what happened.”

With some difficulty, I took my eyes off of him and turned back to the broken lens. I could feel my chest rising in a panic.

I finished gathering the shards of glass. I held them in my gloved hand, watching the sharp edges glisten in the fragile sunlight.

“You… you’re supposed to be in jail right now?” I asked. For some reason, although my mind told me to be frightened, my heart told me that I was safe. I shivered.

“Indeed,” he said, not showing any emotion. I expected him to threaten me, but he stayed silent.

I glanced up at him. “So uh… what were you in for?”

“Murder in the first degree,” he answered with a smirk. My stomach lurched.

“Who did you kill?”

He sniffed disdainfully, looking up at the stained glass window. “I didn’t kill her,” he spat. “I was wrongly accused.”

“Isn’t that what they all say?”

He turned his chilled eyes onto me. “Maybe. But I know who did it. And it sure wasn’t me.”

“…Who was killed?” I asked hesitantly. I still held the glass in my hands, which were slowly growing stiff and numb. I wondered if he was cold in his thin gray clothes.

“My fiancée,” he said. “I loved her so much. Why would I kill her?” I watched as his icy features slowly warmed and softened. He looked away.

“Husbands kill their wives even when they love them. Maybe you two got into a fight and it went wrong. Maybe it was an accident,” I said with a shrug.

“…No, it wasn’t an accident,” he replied. “Maribel killed her. Maribel killed Darla.”

“Who’s Maribel?” I asked, confused.

“My student.”

“You were a teacher?”

“A professor,” he said, his tone hard. “Fresh out of college… I was only twenty four Maribel was a student of mine – a junior, so the age difference wasn’t that big at all. She came on to me. I told her I was in love with Darla. So she killed her.”

“So why were you convicted?”

“Maribel framed me. She planted evidence. She led the cops to believe that I’d committed the murder. And like fools they believed it,” he murmured.

I looked at my hands, holding the shards of glass. It was then I realized that I’d been in the house for a while. The sunlight was waning, and the thick clouds were taking over the sky. The stained glass window glowed.

“I should go,” I whispered. I looked at him. He was staring at the gray floorboards.

“Fine,” he said. “Remember your promise.”

I nodded. For some reason, I didn’t even think of turning him in at the time. I stood with my broken camera and shattered glass.

“Oh, right, what’s your name?” I asked as I headed toward the door leading to the staircase. He glanced at me with his black eyes as though contemplating whether or not to tell me.

“Daemon Sharp.”

Thanks for reading! This is a complete experiment – I wanted to write a story with an intentional Mary Sue and use her successfully without making it a parody or any sort of humor piece. Therefore, I would really appreciate any feedback you may have – comments, questions, constructive criticism. Thank you!

-Lefty