This one was partially inspired by news this summer about the plight of women in science related fields. It wasn’t the entire inspiration. Enjoy.
Film at Eleven
I watched my friends from the second story dorm window. Giggling girls with swimming suits, ice chests full of hard cider and wine coolers. Spring Break arrived, and I’d be alone for at least a week.
I closed the curtains and opened my bottom drawer. My little black dress awaited. Sleeveless, mid-thigh with lots of flare. A pair of matching short heels tucked underneath it.
I couldn’t afford something crazy showing up on YouTube, but it was my Spring Break too. I decided a month ago to go dancing at least once. It’s just so hard for girls in the sciences.
Nobel Prize winners still put down women in science fields. I worked hard for my grades, and couldn’t risk getting caught with my hair down.
I shoved my outfit in my purse and drove fifty miles to the next town. There was a posh nightclub, and by God I was going to have a drink and a dance.
The bartender hadn’t finished making my drink before I was whisked onto the dance floor. The boy was nice, good looking too. It was pretty obvious he had some kind of lame wingman thing going on. The friend was nice enough, but awkward. He wasn’t much of a dancer either.
I allowed the friend to fetch my drink, and we sat at a table to catch our breath. The cute one danced with a blonde who had a gross tramp stamp tattoo.
Smells like pine. Kink in my back.
-Grraaak. Grraak.- That’s a Stellar’s Bluejay. I opened my eyes and saw trees against a cloudy sky. My fist clenched around a damp clump of pine needles.
The top of my dress was down around my waist, so I pulled it up and covered myself. I slipped a hand down, and my panties were gone. I had two, maybe three drinks at most – Roofies. Me, the most careful girl in school.
I propped myself up, and my head reeled. At least he left my shoes. Or…they, oh God, what if they all had a turn. I could be — pregnant, or infected with —
There were campers through the trees, and boats on the tiny lake beyond. I know this place, I used to come here with the girls and a bottle of wine while everyone else was at the football game. Town is still five miles away.
My purse was in the ditch below me. They took my credit card and phone. I need to cancel my card, cancel my phone, and and um, the morning after pill. I headed toward the campsites.
What if they took pictures? What if I’m on some kind of sick video site? My scholarship, my Summer internship, my whole career. Poof! Why can’t a girl just go dancing one night? Why do we have act differently than the boys?
Whatever happened to earning what a guy wants? Prove his worth instead of hitting me over the head like a caveman. I’m not a prude about it.
I could never steal a camper’s phone, but I wasn’t above making a call. All the campers were on the lake, and nobody left a phone lying around.
I’d have to wait for the shitstorm to hit. Photos and videos; or not. There was no going to the police. Even the slightest hint this happened would end six years of hard study.
I tromped toward town, thankful I didn’t buy a pair of real stilettos.
The last campsite sat empty too, just a tent, a fire ring, and an axe in a log.
I yanked the axe out with one hand. There might be something I can do after all. I shouldered the axe and walked toward the edge of town.
This one is more the axe murderer side of Halloween. I hope you enjoyed it.
Note: if you’re enjoying Macabre Macaroni 2015, I recently published a book of short stories and micro-fiction. They don’t all have a Halloween theme, but at 99¢ you about can’t miss. Check out The Experimental Notebook of C. S. Boyack.