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Yelena Beauty
Nov 17, 2008

 

Her name was Yelena Beauty. She was a half asian half white mix, strikingly similar to a girl I knew in kindergarten whom I had made a habit of taunting because i secretly wanted to fuck her (before i knew what fucking was). It was the unspoken consensus of the entire highschool that Yelena Beauty was both the prettiest and the stupidest.

At the Hatch Shell, Obama spoke. His rapper friend - who wasnt actually a friend but more of an association made by the media - was also there, in that crowd of fold-up chairs, probably as eager to smoke his weed as I was to try out my homemade bomb.

I crept away from the event and began to walk across the desert. It was a short desert, like the size of Narsella Field. And like Narsella Field, there was a distinct area at the other end. It was an area for skiing. I walked further and further into the desert and when I seemed to be at the halfway point between the two landmarks, I lit my bomb. It was the size and shape of a Pringles container. It shot upward like a firecracker.

I kept walking. When I reached the skiing area, I had skis on. The skiing area was mostly flat, with only a few bumps, so I still had to work at moving and the long skis on my feet made my movements more cumbersome. The coach of the skiing area blew his whistle when he saw I was wearing jeans instead of "proper skiing attire."

I spotted Obama's rapper friend and skiied up next to him to see if he wanted to smoke some weed. But Obama came up next to us and I knew it would be a bad idea to insist. So I put away my desire to smoke.

At the highschool, Yelena Beauty turned heads left and right. Today, though, it wasn't her fuckability that had people staring; it was instead the imminent event of her murder that had us all peering in awe - she was alive now, but by the end of the school day she would be dead. A walking corpse.

Yelena Beauty had no clue. She was the stupidest girl. People could almost talk about it right in front of her and she wouldn't understand. She was well-intentioned and had no reason to suspect anyone would want to hurt her. It was ironic. No sooner had it been born as an idea, as a possibility, than the collective mind of the student body decided it must be so. Throughout the day it was a whisper on the tips of everyone's tongue, growing louder after lunch, with people talking about it openly, texting their friends or having a laugh at their lockers, enthusiastic about the big trick to be played.

Somehow we had made her believe that she was to give a speech at the end of last period. It was during her speech that we would kill her, most likely by beating her with a shovel, or with our fists. Her being dead was not what tickled our fancies; it was the anticipation of the event, and her not knowing about it, that so excited us

People began to take seats, while others directed the traffic of people in order not to clog the hallway. One guy had a crazy look in his eyes, but he was diligent in seating people here and there, and reminding them not to say anything and to act normal until the cue was given. I hesitated in the hallway, looking at his crazy eyes. I told him, "I dont think we should do this." He looked at me with this crazy eyes but didnt seem to care. To him, I was just one spark plug gone bad. He continued to direct people.

Yelena Beauty would be a third of the way into her speech when the crowd would begin to snicker, then holler and hoot. People would blurt out harassing comments and she would look to the administrators and faculty for assistance. They would stand idly by at the corners of the stage, watching her like voyeurs with the same anticipation as had the crowd of hungry killers. This would horrify her into silence. the microphone would crackle and feedback. Soon the crowd would advance upon her, slowly, like a bad dream. Would they rape her too? Would they eat her?

After all was said and done, some people might have begun to felt like I did, guilty for having gone as far, for having been part of the destruction of innocence. They might have been disillusioned by their fleeting thirst for violence against beauty... But maybe not. Maybe as a group they would find conciliatory solace. Maybe the collective killing of one would stave off the chaotic individual killings of many. Maybe this was life's unfair way of bringing order to the community.

I wouldn't know. I could not affect the outcome alone, and no one apparently felt the way I did. I walked to the end of the hallway and opened the door to the desert. I stepped out, took a few steps, and looked back to the doorway. You were there, sitting next to Erika. You were on the edge of your seat and your leg was shaking in characteristic fashion of antipication. Neither of us said anything, but I shrugged, as if to say "I just cant do it." You smiled and understood. Your leg continued to shake.

The door was one of those thick highschool doors with hydraulic hinges. It closed slowly.