The boy didn’t seem to take any notes or even really pay the slightest attention to the teacher. This would have seemed normal if he had been sneaking texts on his cell phone under his desk or picking zits or something, but he wasn’t. He was gazing at me. Like, chin on one hand, content to sit like this forever, might as well be gazing out the window kind of staring.
The world was ending. Actually, it wasn’t, but that’s how it felt at the time. Looking back on it, I can see how stupid it was to feel that way, because I’ve come a lot closer to a literal “end of the world” since then. But when you’re just a teenager and you’ve spent your entire life in one place, and your parents decide to uproot you and move to the other end of the country with only a few weeks notice, it really feels like the end of the world. If anything, I think I handled the real thing a lot better than I handled the news that we were moving.
“I’m not moving to a whole new school! I’ll be eaten alive!”
I used to fear imaginary things: monsters, ghosts, mummies, and things that go bump in the night. When I got older, I focused on more realistic threats: rape, car accidents, social humiliation, conservative world leaders…
Now here I was facing attack from the kind of horror that I long ago relegated to childish nightmares.
Except that I was awake, and this was real, and I could very well be killed in a disgustingly gory way.
Maybe I should have gained some comfort from the fact that I was loved. Adored. Worshipped, even. When you are in love, you are supposed to hold hands, and face death with serene acceptance.
Maybe we could share a dramatic kiss as we died in the tradition of star crossed lovers everywhere.
“Fuck that shit,” I said as my chainsaw sputtered to life and began to roar. “Let’s slice off some heads.”