There is a certain girl; I'm not going to say who. Well ok, I'll tell you exactly who, because I just can't bear keeping secret to myself like that, it's just petty and selfish and wrong and a hundred other anathemas.
Her name is Annalisa Andreikowska. She has been in my mind for ages.
I shall recall my first encounter with this creature.
It was unlike any unusual day, nothing seemed out of place or disturbing, other than Robert Smalligan's unusually putrid corpse rotting under my dorm room bed. Other than that pending issue, there wasn't a thing out of place or shape.
I had been late for economics class that morning, as I always was time and time again, and I found myself rushing, not irritably, but insanely down the courtyard. Fred Smalligan was there.
'Oi, kid, av' you seen Robert?' and I break for a second to consider this lowlife.
'Robert?' A pause
'e'yea, yah def?'
Answer more politely and I might of thrown you a bone, little doggie.
'Nah, I don't know who the Fuck you'r talking about'.
He didn't bother to rough me up, the jock. Only mutter 'stupid fucking kid' and piss off.
Then, only seconds after I revolved my head at the elder Smalligan's disappearing figure, SHE comes from the other end, walking in my parallel direction.
I was the victim of some animate and monstrous Shakespearean stage that shifted from location to random location.
She looked like a princess, and I, a surf.
The difference between us was noticeable, as I was essentially unnoticeable. She was a Venus incarnate. My impulses drove me to unreviewed action, and as I stumbled towards her, like only hopeless romantics do, i pray for wit, and humor, and something that does not sound like complete retardation.
As it turned out she bumped into me. And I stumbled backwards, awkwardly, as if the whole stinking thing was not contrived by my own design.
I said, 'Hey, watch it', in a feeble attempt of mimicked irritability.
She only stared at me with eyes frozen, then picked up her books scattered on the floor. Exited.
I thought to myself, about the situation at hand and was disappointed, and unfulfilled. So this time I exercised a sneak tactic.
She was not aware that I had followed her, five minutes into the future. As I grabbed her shoulder, she flung her textbooks to the ground and tried to slap me, but I grabbed that arm too and head-butted not once, or twice but thrice, until a trickling of blood painted my face. She fell unconscious and I crawled over her, with eyes narrowed, vicious I guess you would call it. The war paint dripping warm on my cheeks. I kissed her with my teeth, then lifted her skirt and penetrated her moist vagina.
I was already naked now. We were where no prying eyes could be found, in the shelter of an ally, connecting to the courtyard. I'm sure it was only a matter of time that I would be found.
She was bear assed and lifeless. As I pumped her harder and harder she sort of flopped about like only dancing ragdolls do. We were painted with the warmest blood, and I savored it, drinking it from the raw wound that gave sight to red hot flesh.
'Oh my god'
The voice was timid and weak, engraved in fear, and with that the clatter of books and other utensils, which sprinkled the pavement.
As I gnawed at her neck, my head, virtually unrecognizable by the red hot mask I wore, jolted and struck a pose.
Face to face now honey.
She, Captured by horror, had her quibbling mouth say something incoherent.
I pulled the knife out of the purple wound where it lay, and like Excalibur, detached smoothly with a wet sputter.
I must have chased her for hours it seems. In the dense fog of my psyche, time is irrelevant. All I remember was chasing and screaming and me running naked down past the gardens.
I was rabid at the time. I think back and have to laugh, because, you see, what was there not to laugh at?
I was butt naked and drenched to the core in virgin blood, chasing across the campus garden some hysterical halfwit, incoherently screaming, making noises only caged and teased chimpanzees would make.
With one hopeful leap I caught her by the hair; my gentiles then grinded the dirt as I hit the ground, and she fell backwards, and then of course, on with the 'Heeeeeeeelp, oh heeeeeeelp'. Can you see this picture taking shape?
I grab her close and whisper, 'you're about to get your medicine, fucking bitch' and show her the blade I'm going to gouge her eyes out with………… when in walks Paul West, from Economics.
Jumbled and confusing? Apparently so.
He had his books under his arms, and his eyes dead set on my naked figure. I'll admit I was very caught up in the situation, I really had to stare. But with that, she prompted a sudden 'Ha ya!' and kicked me in the face, and my head flew to the ground. My cock and balls danced in the wind as I threw myself backwards, and her forwards, screaming 'Haeylp!!!'.
Then Paul, Paul Jaffrey West, of economics class dashed towards the scene, reaching into his jacket.
Funny how things work out.
As you can see from the above text, I should be well and good, and unscathed by fate that had me within its grasp from scenes previous. Would you picture me standing on my yacht, with a wife named Madeline, and daughter names Anastasia, as the pass identity of a murderer faded into darkness, eclipsed by his new life and new name….
…Not really. I hope not. I only signed up of this class a couple months ago and already I'm getting kind of tired with coping with the social stigmas attached. I hope I don't actually have to go with that name change in the end.
This year, ever since I joined artistic homicide, Higher level, I've always been greeted with those awkward glances by everyone, namely mum. Trembling, she would say 'nnow Rick..you pput down that knife now'.
Hell, my girlfriend won't even bother returning my messages after I tell her I've had a class with Mr. Ross. Nevertheless, I concur with the fact that this year has been a good one, and when I say 'good one' I mean that in relation to that fact that I won a scholarship to the University of Washington that very morning I chased Ronda Newcastle down to the gardens.
Mr Ross, A PhD in Homicide, asked and told me, shock full of awe, 'This, Mr. Van Der Park, is by far the most creative piece you've done so far… I am… without words. Tell me, what possible kind of inspiration did you inherited to paint such a grand portrait!' he said as he touched the dead eyeless face of the unnamed (to me at the time) face of Ronda.
The whole class gathered out to witness my creation.
The girls in the crowd winked, and blushed when I turned my head towards them.
Paul just whistled behind me. He wasn't the kind of guy who cared for chicks or fame or any of that crap, he was the real intellectual. If anything, it was he that deserved that scholarship.
'Well sir, I don't deserve all the credit.'
Mr Ross looked a little offended there in his academic attire; Taking his fat thick fucking glasses off and wiping them clean with his tie.
'And why not, would you say Mr Van der Park… why not'
I turned my head to Paul. 'I really could not have done it without him. I shall explain. You see she was about to get away, with her hide and my scholarship, and I thank god that Paul was there to stop her'
Mr. Ross Glanced rather dismissively at Paul. Paul was always an underrated student. Sure he coped, but he always failed disposal class. He hated dead body disposal. He hated it with a passion, and sure, I can understand. I repelled myself from Mr Ross's lectures on torture. I knew the basics without any dedication to a five hour class on how to decapitate the living, but nonetheless I always barely passed that particular topic.
'Mr. Paul West, I presume'
Paul walked to him and reached into his jacket. He produced a large revolver, a magnum, and gave it to Ross.
'You… attempted to take the credit of Mr. Van der park's work'
I stood there and tapped him on the back then. I wanted no misconceptions.
'Mr Ross… this Is Paul's piece of art.. its his scholarship.. not mine.. he was the one that painted her portrait.. shot her dead.. I only added the finishing touches'.
The resultant of this was both our Scholarships to the university of Washington state.
I will never forget that day, shaking hands with Mr. Ross as he awarded both our certificates in the presence of an audience of around a thousand.
As I am gripping the flesh of Mr. Ross's hand, I think to myself, it's Annalisa Andreikowska's hand that I should be shaking. It was her that got me here in the first place.
Mr. and Mrs. Andreikowska stood in the front row, tearing and weeping; at the same time clapping rabidly.
They took my picture. I smiled.
She was on my mind that day, and to this minute she has never left my thoughts.